


Iniquity

by The_Researcher



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/F, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-14
Updated: 2017-03-24
Packaged: 2018-08-08 18:10:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 29,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7768027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Researcher/pseuds/The_Researcher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A post-S4 Wentworth fanfic with an ensemble focus. </p><p>(Basically, it's like one super long episode of the show, starting from the moment S4 ended).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1

First, there was water.

It surrounded her. She wanted to laugh as it tickled her skin, buoyed her up. It caressed her and made her feel weightless.

Then there was light. It shone down on her, bringing warmth, making everything a little clearer, a little brighter. She reached for it, her arms stretching toward a beach.

There was a girl with red hair.

Allie smiled. She flowed through the water, toward the girl. “Debbie!” she called exultantly, “I’m coming! I’m almost there!”

The girl smiled back, waving at her, beckoning her forward.

Just as Allie was about to reach the shore, she felt a hand softly clasp her own. “Bea,” she breathed, turning, giddy with happiness.

“Beautiful girl,” Bea replied, pulling her gently toward her, linking their bodies as they floated.

Allie grinned, happiness overwhelming her as she embraced Bea, clasping her tightly against her. “I love you, Bea,” she whispered against Bea’s lips.

But Bea had disappeared.

Allie felt herself suddenly ripped away, the ocean vanishing, the quiet shredded by the high-pitched wailing of alarms.

She opened her eyes.

She was hit by waves of searing pain. She couldn’t breathe.

Her only thought, before she drifted back into unconsciousness, was that she had lost something very, very important. She just needed to grasp it again, to reach a little farther…

She surrendered to oblivion.

***

Joan’s hand was shaking.

She stared at it as if it were a diseased part—something that needed to be torn off and thrown away before it infected her. She jerked her attention back to Smith, lying on the ground. “She won,” she thought, over and over again, staring as the blood continued to stream from Smith’s body. “She won. She won. She won.”

Somewhere, in the background, Vera and Jackson were shouting—something about an ambulance.

Joan’s gaze shifted back to her bloodied hand. “She won,” yes, but “I lost,” too. The two phrases became inseparable, repeating endlessly in Joan’s mind. “She won. I lost. She won. I lost. She won. I lost.”

It wasn’t supposed to be this way.

She turned to step toward Smith, but was prevented by the guard at her side. She wanted to remove Vera and Jackson, to stop them buzzing around Smith like nuisance flies. All this talk of ambulances—didn’t they understand that this was Smith’s moment of triumph? And Joan’s own role in it—the way she thrust the screwdriver deep into Smith, turning it, forcing it in—that was her gift to Smith. She gave her the freedom—the ecstasy—of death.

But no one would understand that.

And so Smith had won, and she had lost. Smith had won.

She had lost.

Dripping blood, Joan’s hand continued to shake.

***

“Where’s the fucking ambulance?” Will yelled desperately, still kneeling at Smith’s side. “Bea! Bea, stay with me, Bea! Don’t leave me!”

Vera slowly stood. She could recognize the moment that life left Bea, even if Will refused. The ambulance was on its way, but it would be too late. They were all too late.

Will became silent. He, too, rose, backing away from the body. He stood helplessly, staring down at the river of blood flowing from Bea, unable to make things right.

His eyes shifted to Ferguson. She was immobile, her hand and shirt stained red.

“You,” he muttered, his voice a low growl. Stepping around Bea, he hurtled toward Ferguson, his fingers reaching forward to clasp her neck. “You did this!” he shouted, fingers closing. “You—you murderer! You fucking monster! You killed her!”

“Will!” Vera screamed. “Stop!”

Joan turned slowly to him, but did nothing to protect herself. Her head fell back as Will increased the pressure of his fingers around her long neck. She slid her eyes past him, staring instead into the clear blue sky. She thought she could hear music—a woman singing.

She stumbled, confused, gasping, when the guard pulled Will away from her.

“Will!” Vera yelled again, pulling ineffectually at his arm. “Don’t make things worse!”

“She killed her!” he roared, held by the struggling guard. “She’s killed so many people! _She deserves to die_.”

Vera put her hand on his sternum. “But you’re not the one who decides that,” she told him sternly. “ _Think_ , Will! Don’t make a stupid mistake!”

Will shook his head. “It wouldn’t be a mistake!” he exclaimed. “Look at what she’s done—she killed Harry Smith and tried to pin it on me! She tried to take out Fletch. I’m sure she killed Nils Jesper, somehow, and now… now… Bea?” He breathed unsteadily in and out. “Get off, Lawson!” he grunted, jerking himself away from the guard. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine, Will,” Vera interjected. “You have to—”

He shook his head, interrupting Vera. “I get it—I get it,” he said, raising his voice over her objections. “But she’ll never stop! It’s all some pathetic vendetta over Jianna, and she’ll never stop!” He pointed at Joan. “She’s a _monster_!”

Vera put her hand over Will’s extended arm. “I know that, and you know that,” she stated, “but you can’t throw away your life by attacking her! You have to walk away. The cameras caught all of this—let the justice system decide her fate.”

“The same justice system that just acquitted her?” Will wrenched his arm away from Vera, breathing heavily. He walked a few steps away, willing himself to calm. Turning back, he found himself staring down at Bea’s body lying on the ground. It felt obscene that they should be standing while she lay surrounded by her own blood. “Where the fuck is that ambulance?” he yelled in frustration.

***

Jianna.

Something shifted in Joan when she heard Jackson say that name. Jianna.

Still gasping from her near strangulation, she, too, stared at Smith’s body before her eyes darted to her own hand, and finally to the bloodied screwdriver lying abandoned on the ground.

Smith died in victory, knowing she had beaten her. And Joan had let her. Even as she thrust the screwdriver into Smith’s soft belly, she had allowed the emotions to overtake her. But she would not—could not—be incarcerated again. She had sacrificed too much.

“Think, think, think,” she silently admonished herself, willing her mind to clear. Freedom was paramount. A chill ran through her as she thought of Gambaro, but she pushed it ruthlessly aside. She had to get out of this—she had to have a plan. Smith may have impaled herself, but Joan would be found guilty. Will Jackson would see to that. So… what to do?

She glanced at the security cameras mounted high on the wall, then to the door, over to Vera, Will, and Lawson, and finally back to Smith’s body.

Gambaro…

She lifted her chin, straightening her shoulders.

Joan Ferguson had a plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I loved writing "Property of Wentworth" (my long Freakytits fic) so much that I decided to try to write something a little more ambitious. Please be kind, readers! I'm going to stumble around for a while until I have a better sense of how to write this thing! :D


	2. 2

Maxine could feel her heart pounding. She wasn’t sure if she could handle this. She had spent so much time these last few weeks thinking about her own mortality that she hadn’t considered… hadn’t thought…

She leaned against the door, staring through the small glass window as the alarms sounded in the little room. She watched, helpless, as the doctors slapped defibrillator electrodes on Allie, yelling “clear!” before jolting her with who-knew-how-many joules of electricity.

She felt Linda Miles place a hand on her shoulder.

Maxine wanted to turn away from the scene before her. She needed to turn away. But then— “Are her eyes open?” she whispered.

“What?” Linda replied, confused.

“Her eyes are open!” Maxine exclaimed. “Look! Right there! They’re open!”

“No, they can’t be—” Linda moved to look through the little window, but Maxine had already pushed the door open, bursting into the room.

The alarms had stopped. Instead, Maxine heard a steady beep-beep-beep. “Allie, love!” Maxine cried as she crossed to the bed. “You’re here! You’re back with us!”

She couldn’t be sure if Allie heard her. Instead of replying, Allie’s eyes rolled up slightly. Her eyelids fluttered before descending.

Maxine felt her stomach turn over. She clutched Allie’s ankle as she desperately looked up at the medical staff surrounding them. “Is she…”

A doctor was manually checking Allie’s pulse, disregarding the machine at his side. “She’s alive,” he reported. “The defibrillator worked. For the moment, she’s alive.”

“And her prognosis?” Maxine asked. “Is it better? Will she be okay?”

The doctor shook his head. “We’ll have to perform tests when she wakes up. She was gone for some time, so there may be resulting trauma to her brain… and we still need to address the acute respiratory distress to her lungs.”

“But there’s hope?” Maxine was almost afraid to ask.

“I can’t tell you that,” the doctor replied, exchanging glances with a nurse. He sighed. “The fact that she gained consciousness—however briefly— _is_ a good sign.”

Maxine beamed. “Thank you, doctor.” She gave Allie’s ankle a squeeze, leaning over her. “You hear that, Allie? You came back to us for a minute—you can do it again. I know it. Try for me, Allie. Try for Bea.”

Maxine released Allie’s ankle, turning back to Linda. “Can we phone Bea again, Miss Miles?” she asked. “She’ll be so happy when she hears the news!”

***

The guard, Lawson, stood beside Joan, his hand on her arm. The contact made her angry. He had no right to touch her.

Joan’s hand felt itchy. All that blood, in direct contact with her skin, leeching into her pores, contaminating her…

No. She must focus. Concentrate.

Ignoring the guard, ignoring the disease on her hand, Joan’s eyes fell to the body. The blood surrounding it was profuse, but it could be covered up, and later scrubbed away. If it rained… Her eyes searched the clear sky. Not an option. Covered, then, for now.

Joan turned her attention to Will and Vera.

Jackson was clearly agitated. He alternated staring morosely at Smith’s body and shouting for the ambulance. It was to be expected, Joan thought. As much as he had never been involved in an inappropriate relationship with Smith, there had always been some sort of emotional bond between them—it was obvious to anyone who looked. It was why it had been so easy to plant the suggestion that Smith was a “screw lover.”

Vera, conversely, appeared anxious as she stared down the road, waiting for the ambulance.

Ah, thought Joan. Vera had always been a little sharper than that blunt object, Jackson. Vera was her entry point.

She was careful not to let a smile show on her face.

“You know what you have to do,” Joan announced, turning toward Vera.

“Shut up,” Will replied, seemingly automatically.

Vera briefly shifted her gaze to Joan, then back to the road. She said nothing.

“You _know_ , Vera,” Joan stated again, confidently. “You have a decision to make.”

“Why don’t you shut the fuck up, Ferguson?” Will asked, turning to stand directly in front of Joan.

Joan tilted her head, looking past Will, ignoring him, her attention on Vera. “Tick tock,” she said, raising her eyebrows in emphasis.

“That’s it,” Will stated. He moved into Joan’s personal space, his body only centimetres from hers. “You will shut up,” he said, his voice low, “or I will make you shut up.”

Joan didn’t move. She smiled, shaking her head. She leaned in, her mouth almost touching his. “Threats to a free woman, Mr. Jackson? Tsk tsk.”

“The fuck you’re a free woman!” Will yelled, the veins in his face accentuating his rage. “You’ll be jailed for life for this! We’ll watch you rot!”

“Will I?” Joan asked.

Will’s entire body shook with the effort to contain his fury, to stop himself from reaching out and strangling Joan Ferguson on the spot.

“Will,” Vera said quietly. “Stop.”

Joan made her face carefully expressionless as she watched Vera.

Will’s shoulders sagged. “She can’t get away with this, Vera,” he said. “She _can’t_. Not again.”

Vera looked up into his face. “I agree. You know I agree. She should be behind bars for life.”

“That’s right,” Will nodded.

“But there are other factors,” Vera continued, “other consequences that we need to consider.” She glanced back at the road. “Quickly.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Breach of duty,” Joan ticked off on her fingers, “breach of security, criminal negligence… shall I go on?”

“What?” Will asked, obviously confused.

“You, Mr. Jackson, willingly escorted an inmate—one with a dark history of violence, may I add, as well as a life sentence— _outside_ of the prison, _carrying_ a weapon, and with the obvious intent to kill me. All three of you,” and here she nodded to Lawson, who had escorted her to the door, then shut it behind her, “are accessories to attempted murder, among other things.”

“But we never—we didn’t know she had a weapon!” Will stuttered.

“Did you, or did you not, conspire to allow Bea Smith out of this prison?” Joan returned fiercely.

“But it was you!” Will shouted. “You’re the one who killed her! The cameras recorded it! _You’re_ the murderer!”

“I acted in self-defense, because you three let her out to attack me,” Joan replied calmly. She smiled dangerously. “Regardless of what happens to me, each of you is going to prison for a _long_ time.”

Will stared at her with horror. “There’s no proof!” he yelled suddenly. “You have no proof of any of this!”

Joan gave him a withering glare. “The _body_ is proof. The fact that I was not escorted to the gate is proof.” She gestured toward the camera on the tall wall behind them. “As you said, the cameras recorded everything.”

Will stared at her, his mouth hanging open as he shook his head in denial. “No,” he whispered. “No!”

Joan ignored him, turning briskly to Vera. “The ambulances will be here any moment. What’s your decision?”

Vera looked at Will, at Lawson. Her eyes fell again on Bea’s body.

Joan pulled Lawson’s hand from her arm. She walked around the body, standing beside Vera. “This is about more than the Governorship,” she informed her, her fingers stroking the small crown on Vera’s shoulder. Her voice became almost tender. “This is about your freedom, Vera. Yours and theirs,” she added, gesturing to the two men. “Think carefully.”

“Fuck off, Joan,” Vera replied angrily, pushing Joan’s hand from her shoulder. She turned away, looking down the road.

Joan was silent, waiting.

All four were as still as the body they surrounded.

“What would we do with her body?” Vera finally whispered.

“No!” Will shouted. “No, Vera! You can’t be thinking about this—she’s just manipulating you!”

“Of course she’s manipulating me!” Vera cried in return, turning to face Will. “She’s manipulating all of us!” She paused, once again staring back at the cameras. “But that doesn’t mean that she’s wrong,” she added.

“She’s _wrong_ , Vera,” Will stated passionately. He placed his hands on Vera’s shoulders, forcing her to look at him. “Everything she says is wrong. You know it. Don’t let her win.”

Vera stepped back from him, removing herself from his grip. “I’m not going to jail, Will,” she informed him with equal fervour. “I refuse to let what _she_ did lead me to lose my freedom.”

Will looked desperately at each of the faces around him. “But… but…”

Vera stared stonily ahead.

“What do we do with the body?” Lawson finally asked.

The decision had been made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, please let me know your thoughts/theories/questions, dear readers! This fic has the potential to be a bit unwieldy... I could use your insights!
> 
> Kudos are love.


	3. 3

As she waited for Linda to call Wentworth, Maxine felt buoyed by hope. Allie had regained consciousness, if ever so briefly. Yes, she had a long road to go, but she’d get better. She’d be with Bea.

Maxine grinned. It all felt so right.

There was an additional thought playing in the back of her mind. If Allie could pull through this, maybe, just maybe, Maxine could, too.

She watched Linda talk to the Wentworth operator. She straightened the scarf on her head.

Yes. Everything was going to be okay.

***

The four of them remained standing above Bea’s body.

“It’s simple,” Joan informed them. “You bring the body back inside Wentworth. You delete the CCTV recording and make it appear to be a system-wide camera failure. You position Smith’s body to make it look like she was stabbed by another inmate. Smith had many enemies—no one would question it. And when the ambulance arrives, they’ll simply find a prisoner who was obviously killed by another prisoner. The police will investigate, but it will come to nothing—that’s hardly a new story, as you should know, Mr. Jackson.”

Will glared murderously.

“And no one will have any inkling that you had anything to do with it,” Joan finished. She glanced down at Bea. “Oh, and park the brawler over the blood stain,” she added. “They police won’t think to look outside. You can scrub it away later.”

They stared at her.

“You’re insane,” Will informed her.

“I’m _right_ ,” Joan retorted.

Vera turned away, staring up the road.

Lawson bent over, lifting Bea’s legs. “She’s still bendable,” he stated.

Vera grimaced.

Will fell to his knees beside Bea. “It can’t be like that,” he cried miserably, gently lifting Bea’s hand. “She deserves better than this. She deserves the truth of her death to be known!”

“The truth?” Joan asked. “Do you mean suicide? Because that’s what it was. You were watching— _you_ saw it. She impaled _herself_.”

“I saw you pointing a weapon at her,” Will countered. “That’s what I saw! And I watched you plunging it into her, again and again… like the cold, psychotic monster that you are!”

Joan smiled. “Sticks and stones, Mr. Jackson. Sticks and stones.” She raised her eyebrows, looking closely at each guard. “Well? The clock is ticking.”

“And what about you?” Will asked belligerently. “What are you going to do, just walk away from it all?”

“That’s exactly what I’m going to do,” Joan replied, turning.

“You fucking—”

“Will!” Vera shouted, “Leave it! We have to make a decision!”

Joan gazed into the bright sky. Behind her, she could hear the others arguing. Jackson kept repeating that “it wasn’t right—it wasn’t fair.”

She shook her head. All this talk of rightness and fairness. As if things were fair in this world. And rightness…

Rightness was whatever served the greater good. She knew this, deep within herself. She had been taught this. Rightness required vision. Rightness required _discipline_.

The three behind her would never understand that.

But Smith had. Joan turned again, staring down at Smith, continuing to listen to the argument around her. Smith had understood the value of dedication and planning. She had understood that it was sometimes necessary to sacrifice things—other people, even aspects of one’s self—to see the plan through to its completion.

Yes, Smith had been a worthy opponent. In her own way, Joan would genuinely mourn Smith.

She turned back to the squabbling children. “Well?” she asked. “Are you finished bickering? May I suggest that you move the body _before_ the ambulance arrives…?” she added dryly.

All four stared at Bea, lying broken on the ground.

“Vera…” Will pleaded.

Vera refused to look at him. “It’s the only way to save ourselves. Like it or not, Bea Smith played us.” She sighed. “We should have realized what she was planning to do, but we didn’t—no,” she said, stopping Will from interrupting, “no, we _didn’t_ see it. We stupidly thought she was going to have a conversation, to let the justice system handle it. But Bea only ever relied on herself.” She placed her hand on Will’s arm. “She tricked us— _both_ of us—and now we have to deal with the consequences.”

Will shook his head, brushing her hand from his arm. “You’re talking about all of this as if she’s the murderer! She’s the victim, Vera—the _victim_!”

“No, Will,” Vera replied tiredly. “ _We’re_ the victims.”

Lawson knelt to pick up Bea’s legs.

***

Maxine watched as Linda’s brow furrowed. She gave Linda a questioning look.

“I’m on hold,” Linda replied. “They can’t seem to locate Smith.”

Maxine craned her head to stare at the clock above them. “She should be on work duty right now,” she informed her helpfully.

Linda nodded, still holding the phone to her ear. “She should be,” she replied, “but she’s not.”

Maxine frowned, her feeling of hopeful optimism suddenly dissolving.

***

Holding Bea’s torso, Will carefully cradled her head against his shoulder. Her body was still warm.

It was taking all of his self-control not to kill Joan Ferguson.

Lawson shifted Bea’s legs. “Where should we put her?” He turned to Joan.

“Perhaps you could make _some_ of your own arrangements,” Joan replied condescendingly. “Or did you want me to hold your hands?”

“Get her within the prison confines, but make sure that no one sees you,” Vera ordered. “There shouldn’t be anyone near this door,” she gestured to the exit, “so you can pause there to cover her with something.”

“Cover her with what?”

“A tarp, a blanket—I don’t care!” Vera exclaimed in exasperation. “I’ll call a lockdown to get the inmates out of the way. Just…” she paused, breathing in deeply, “just leave the body in a place where she was likely to have been attacked. And remember your route—we’ll need to double-check that we wipe those cameras.”

Lawson turned to move away, holding Bea’s legs, but Will held his position. “You know this is wrong, Vera,” he warned one last time. “You know that no good will come of this.”

“And you know that you’d never make it in Walford,” Vera replied coldly. “Just get it done.”

Frustrated, Will followed Lawson. The two men walked away, Bea’s body held gently between them.

Vera crossed her arms, watching as they entered the building. Joan stood beside her. Both women were silent.

“I never want to see you again,” she eventually informed Joan, refusing to look at her. She straightened her bun. “This is the end for us. You’ve got your freedom. Never come back.”

Joan idly gazed down at the smaller woman. She remained silent for a long moment. “Gambaro,” she said at last.

“What?” Vera asked, craning her neck to look up at her. “What does Gambaro have to do with anything?”

“Lucy Gambaro is a known enemy of Bea Smith.”

“Yes, but—ah. Of course.” Vera rolled her eyes. “You want me to pin this murder on Gambaro. To make sure that you’re never suspected.”

“What I want you to do, Vera,” Joan stated slowly, positioning her body directly in front of Vera, looking down into her eyes, “is to pick up this screwdriver, wipe off the handle, and hide it in Gambaro’s cell. And then I want you to find said screwdriver in the cell, and have Gambaro charged with first-degree murder.”

Vera refused to be cowed. She shook her head. “And why would I do that? I could leave this murder unsolved. The police wouldn’t be able to find the evidence either way. Why would I want to pin it on her? What would I get from that?”

“It’s obvious, isn’t it?” Joan asked in reply, lightly placing her index finger on the side of Vera’s neck. “Vengeance.”

Vera’s heart beat faster. She jerked away from Joan’s touch.

“Vengeance,” Joan repeated, her finger still held aloft, a sadistic smile spreading across her face, “against the woman who infected you with Hepatitis C.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I'd love to hear any thoughts/insights/theories into this little fic. Kudos are love!
> 
> Just a little note: I may not be able to update again for a couple of weeks. I'm running away to a little cabin that lacks electricity, flushing toilets, and internet. Expect a pretty big update when I'm back to internet-connected civilization!


	4. 4

Vera’s radio buzzed as she reached the door. “Code black! Code black!” she heard Will’s voice yell, “corridor D, north end.”

She closed her eyes for a moment, breathing in. This was it. In her left hand, she felt the screwdriver carefully wrapped in the handkerchief that Joan had returned earlier. The metal tool was such a small thing, and yet it felt heavy, weighing her down.

She tried not to think about the fact that she was carrying a murder weapon back inside the prison.

She could feel Joan’s eyes on her back, watching her, waiting for her to stop, to cry, to break down.

Not this time. Vera was not the “pathetic mouse” that Joan had once called her. She was strong. She was the Governor. She was making the hard decision—the one that would save Jackson, Lawson… and herself.

Never again would Joan Ferguson ruin her life.

“All guards return to duty,” she heard herself bark into the radio. “Institute prison-wide lockdown.”

She pulled the door open.

“Vera?” she heard Joan call. “Send someone out with my personal belongings. Perhaps Lawson rather than Jackson, unless you want more blood on your hands.”

Vera stepped inside, neither turning back nor acknowledging Joan.

“And don’t forget to move the brawler!” she heard Joan’s voice order as the door shut behind her.

She was inside.

***

Kaz Proctor was absently wiping the final counters in the kitchen, having already dismissed the rest of her team. It was surprisingly warm and peaceful here between mealtimes. As she wiped, she contemplated all of the changes that she would institute now that she was Top Dog. A small smile appeared on her face. She hadn’t wanted the position, but if it was the will of the women…

She dropped the cloth and leaned against the counter. There was so much that she could do. Education, first. The majority of the women in this prison were as much victims as they were criminals. They were beaten wives, desperate prostitutes, junkies whose only fault was trying to drown out the horror of their lives. They were women who had been oppressed by all manner of circumstances; victims of a system that hated them, and then punished them for that hate. They needed to learn, so that they could stand up for themselves when they were released. Fend for themselves.

Never again be dependent on men.

Kaz’s smile grew: she would do that. She would change this prison into a place of refuge for these women—a place where they could heal, nurture each other, and learn.

She had twelve long years here.

She would make them count.

She nodded to herself, once again picking up the rag to continue wiping the counter. Bea Smith would help. She didn’t have to do anything—Kaz knew Bea well enough to recognize that she would shun the whole idea—but once again she would make Bea into a symbol for them all: a victimized woman who had grown strong within the walls of the prison, who had taken control of her own life. A woman who had healed enough to find love again.

Kaz scrubbed at a spot. It was always important for the women to have a symbol.

She was startled by the wail of an alarm.

She dropped the cloth.

“Attention, compound,” came the voice across the intercom.

Right, Kaz thought, her body already moving into attack mode. Like hell was she going to stay alone in the kitchen when her women might be in danger.

She ran.

***

“Attention, compound,” the voice repeated. “The prison is now in lockdown. All inmates are to remain where they are. Repeat: all inmates are to remain where they are.”

“What? _Why_?” Boomer Jenkins wailed, throwing down a nearly-folded towel.

Liz Birdsworth sighed, leaning on the countertop. She looked up at the clock. “Work detail was almost done,” she noted. “I wonder what’s going on?”

Doreen Anderson hurried toward them, pushing a large cart of laundry. “I overheard the radio as I passed the guard station,” she whispered, leaning in toward the two of them. “Mr. Jackson called in a code black!”

“Code black, eh?” Liz asked, putting her hand on her hip. “I reckon someone’s been pretty seriously hurt.”

Boomer smiled. “I hope it’s someone we hate! Hey—how about Juicy Lucy? Or Tina?” She punched her palm with her fist. “I’d be dead happy if someone offed her!”

Liz ignored Boomer, instead looking back at the clock. “Hey,” she said slowly, “where’s Bea?”

Doreen looked startled. “She’s not back yet?”

They silently exchanged glances.

“Let’s see what information we can get from the guard,” Liz threw over her shoulder, already hurrying toward the guard station.

“I’ll pound it out of him, if I have to,” Boomer muttered, following closely behind.

***

Kaz rounded the corner before skidding to a stop. At the end of the corridor she saw Will Jackson, crouched alone beside the prone body of an inmate. “What have you done?!” she screamed, rushing forward.

Will looked up, his face a mask of guilt.

***

Joan stood against the side of the building, listening to the quiet that followed the cessation of the alarm. It had been so long since she had heard true quiet. Even in the isolation wing, she had been surrounded by endless jarring noises.

General had been worse.

The sound of so many women, caged together…

She shook her head, forcing herself to forget. She was free now—free in the quiet.

Or, almost.

She looked down at her bloodied hand, at the stains that saturated her shirt and sweater. Once again, the feeling of contamination washed over her. Disease… she was covered in disease…

She placed her back against the wall, forcing herself to remain focused. Think. Plan. Lawson would come soon, bringing her personal belongings. She could don her blazer over the soiled articles, and then simply walk away. No one would ever know.

And when she was home, she would burn the clothing and take a long shower, washing all of this filth away.

Yes. She would be clean again.

As soon as Lawson came.

She punched the wall with her fist.

Focus. Think. Plan.

As soon as Lawson came.

***

“What have you done?” Kaz repeated in a strangled whisper, pushing at Will as she knelt next to the body. “Bea?” she asked, trying to feel for a pulse. Giving up, she gently pushed the hair away from Bea’s face. “Bea?”

“Get back to your unit, Proctor,” Will ordered halfheartedly, trying to pull Kaz away. “Don’t disturb…” he faltered, “disturb…”

“Who?” Kaz asked, rounding on him. “The woman you killed?” she screamed, suddenly punching at him.

“What?” Will asked, falling back, throwing up his arms to protect himself. “This wasn’t me!” he shouted in return. “You can’t think that I would do something like this! This was—” he abruptly stopped.

“This was who?” Kaz yelled. She clutched his shirt, pulling him close as they both fell to the floor. Will tried to look away, but Kaz grasped his head in her hands. “Who, Will?” she asked desperately. “You know, don’t you! _Who did this_?”

“Proctor!” Vera’s steely voice echoed in the hallway as she rushed toward them, flanked by two guards. “Step away from Mr. Jackson.”

Kaz ignored her, focusing on Will. “Who?” she demanded again, forcing him to look her in the eyes. “ _Who_?”

“Slot her,” Vera ordered.

The guards pulled Kaz from Will. She kicked and shouted, trying to get back to him. “You know, Will Jackson!” she screamed as she was physically carried away. “ _I know you know_!”

Left alone, Vera looked angrily at Will. “What have you done?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thoughts/comments/theories are very appreciated. I'm feeling my way as I go along...
> 
> Kudos are love!


	5. 5

As she walked down the corridor, Maxine concentrated on the hum of the hospital. It was surprisingly familiar. She suddenly realized what it reminded her of: Wentworth.

“Ha!” she snorted. In Wentworth, her body was the prisoner. Here, walking toward the cancer centre, her soul was prisoner to her body—her diseased body. She sighed.

Linda looked at her from the corner of her eye.

“I’m fine,” Maxine informed her.

“Have you taken your pre-chemo pill?” Linda asked.

“Yes,” Maxine nodded, “but thanks for checking, Mum.”

Linda rolled her eyes.

They rounded the corridor and entered the cavernous cancer centre. Aside from an airport, it housed the largest waiting area Maxine had ever encountered. There were three floors of comfortable chairs, all arranged in little groups, flanked by ubiquitous potted plants. Around the outside were numerous little offices—categorized by each patient’s oncologist—and endless examination rooms. From past experience, Maxine already knew that the chemo rooms were slightly removed from this mass of chairs and plants, positioned away from all of the noise and bustle so as to provide a serene space in which to inject the poison into her veins.

She sighed again.

Linda halted, searching for chairs for each of them. “Is it always this busy?” she asked.

Maxine nodded. “It makes you think that everyone in the world has cancer, doesn’t it?”

Linda led them toward a small group of chairs. An older man looked up and nodded a welcome, but the woman next to him—his wife, Maxine surmised—swept both of them with a glance before curling her lip in distaste. “Excuse me,” she said loudly, directing her attention to Linda. “I would prefer if you remove… _her…_ to somewhere else.”

Maxine froze. She could feel intense heat as her face flushed bright red in embarrassment.

Linda looked from the woman to Maxine, then back to the woman. She put her hands on her hips. “What?” she asked.

“Let’s just go,” Maxine mumbled.

Linda ignored her. “What are you talking about?” she asked the woman.

“She’s obviously a criminal!” the woman stated, ignoring her husband as he tried to quiet her.

“Lady, I know criminals,” Linda replied. “I work with them all day. I don’t need you harassing my friend— _a nurse_ —when we’re both off shift.”

Maxine threw a quick, puzzled glance at Linda.

“A nurse?” the woman asked, askance.

“Who else wears teal scrubs all day?” Linda retorted. “Now would you kindly keep your accusations to yourself, and leave us in peace?”

The woman sat back with a huff. “I’m sorry,” she said finally. “I thought—”

“I know what you thought,” Linda interrupted. “But you might consider where we are. Even if my friend were a criminal, don’t you think she deserves the same care as anyone else battling cancer?”

The woman looked away. Her husband nodded and gave a tiny wink to Maxine.

She grinned.

Linda settled herself. “Looks like it’ll be a long wait,” she commented, looking at the full chairs surrounding them.

Maxine turned toward her, placing her hand lightly on Linda’s arm. “Thank you,” she said seriously.

“Oh, get off, Conway!” Linda replied, flicking Maxine’s hand away, but not before Maxine saw the small smile that graced her face.

They were both startled by the sudden ring of Linda’s cell phone. Answering it, she frowned. “Do you know who it is?” she asked the caller.

Maxine looked up sharply.

Linda ended the call. Tucking the phone away, she assumed a disturbingly blank expression. “I’m to keep you here,” she murmured to Maxine. “The prison’s on lockdown.”  
“What?” Maxine asked, startled. “Why?”

Linda stared at her a beat before answering. “An inmate’s been murdered.”

Maxine felt her stomach drop. “Oh God,” she whispered, “is it…?”

“I don’t know yet,” Linda replied quickly. “It’s only just happened.” She paused, looking at the stricken expression on Maxine’s face. “I promise,” she added, surprising herself with her desire to comfort Maxine, “I’ll tell you as soon as I know.”

Maxine nodded, giving a tiny smile. “Thank you, Ms. Miles. I appreciate that.” She turned to the leafy plant beside her, purposefully trying to hide her face as panic and grief warred with each other.

Because inside, she knew.

Bea was dead.

***

The door suddenly sprung open, startling Joan. She stared wildly, backing herself against the wall, her breath coming in short bursts, her body ready to fight.

It was Lawson.

She exhaled, purposely relaxing her muscles as he strode toward her, holding out her bag. She received it silently, yanking it open and pulling out the shirt and blazer she had worn only an hour or so before, at her trial. She looked up, careful to position herself directly under the camera, where she couldn’t be seen. Ripping off her bloodied cardigan, she threw it to the ground before working to undo the buttons on her shirt.

Lawson was watching. She looked at him, raising one eyebrow. He reddened and turned away.

Joan tossed the ruined shirt next to the cardigan. She pulled on the other shirt and blazer. “The brawler?” she asked, straightening her clothing.

“I’m to move it as soon as you’re gone,” he replied.

“Do it now,” she ordered.

“Yes, Governor,” he replied automatically.

They both realized what he had said.

“Not yet,” Joan replied, “but soon.”

She shoved the blood-soaked clothing into the bottom of the bag. Turning, she walked away from Lawson, from the brawler, from her life as a prisoner. In the distance, she could hear sirens.

She smiled.

Soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thoughts/comments/theories are very much appreciated! 
> 
> (I know: no Franky, Bridget, or Jake yet. But they're coming...
> 
> And no, I haven't forgotten about Allie!)
> 
> If you like the fic, please leave kudos. Kudos are love!


	6. 6

Vera couldn’t stop staring at the body.

The corridor felt alternately cold, then hot. She thought she could detect the stench of death, although she forcefully told herself that it was too early for the body to putrefy. Still, the reek filled her nostrils, threatening to suffocate her as its tendrils cloyed their way through her body. She gulped, trying to find clean air.

No such air existed in a prison.

As her anxiety rose, Vera felt the desperate need to get away—to run. She crossed her arms, willing the sensation to dissipate, forcing herself to look at Will. “What did you tell her?” she asked, her voice shrill. “How much does Proctor know?”

“Nothing!” Will exclaimed tiredly from where he had fallen. “I didn’t tell her anything!”

Vera placed her hands on her hips. “Well, she certainly thinks that you know who killed Smith!” She cautiously walked around the body, kneeling in front of Will. “Do you understand,” she stated slowly, carefully, holding Will’s gaze, “just how much trouble we would get in if anyone found out?” She pushed him. “Do you?”

“I understand!” Will exclaimed. “Vera, I get it! But that doesn’t make it right!”

“Will, we’re kneeling next to a dead body!” Vera exclaimed in exasperation. “Nothing makes this right!” She stood, taking a few steps. Turning back, she added, “but we have to save ourselves now.” She cocked her ear, listening hard.

Distantly, from outside the walls of Wentworth, came the screech of sirens.

Time was up.

***

Joan crossed the street, pausing for the smallest of seconds as the ambulance turned into Wentworth’s main entryway, behind her. She allowed the barest smile to cross her face. Tightening her grip on her bag, she turned down the cuff of her blazer, hiding the dried blood that covered her hand.

Her red right hand, she thought amusedly to herself. What would Kaz think?

She stumbled slightly.

Kaz.

She straightened. Now was no time to think about Proctor. She had to focus.

First she needed to clean her hand. Then she needed to get home—back to Shayne, if he was still there. She needed to know if Franky had gotten to him, somehow. She needed to make sure that he never told anyone about her original plan.

But first, she had to clean her red right hand.

***

Kaz screamed at the walls of the slot containing her. She beat at them with her fists, throwing the bedding to the ground, kicking the bedframe.

No one saw or heard.

Eventually, she leaned her head against the dirty window, her fingers absently tracing the names and initials of the many previous residents of the slot.

Bea Smith was dead.

It was unreal, somehow, except that she had seen Bea’s body up close. She had seen the blood staining her ripped, tattered sweatshirt.

And she had seen Will Jackson kneeling over Bea’s body.

She signed, turning away from the window. She had hated Will Jackson for such a long time, and yet, in this moment, she believed him.

Will Jackson hadn’t killed Bea Smith.

_But he knew who did_.

Pulling the mattress back onto the bed before lowering herself onto it, Kaz vowed one thing: she would find out who had murdered Bea Smith.

And she would make them pay.

***

Vera watched from the sidelines as the ambulance crew confirmed Smith’s death, and then departed. She watched as the police surveyed the scene, snapping photographs, searching for evidence. She was helpful, providing them with a list of potential inmate enemies to Smith, allowing them full access to the camera systems, apologizing profusely when the system-wide camera failure was discovered.

She cooperated fully in every aspect except one: she didn’t reveal how Smith had actually died.

It was surprisingly easy to lie. Technically, it wasn’t even lying—it was simply omission. She had responded to Will Jackson’s call. She had placed the prison into lockdown. She had found Bea Smith’s body on the ground in the corridor, obviously stabbed to death.

All of that was true.

She simply left out what had happened before the code black came across her radio—just as she left out the bloodied screwdriver, still wrapped in her handkerchief, hiding in the back of her desk drawer.

Hiding, in fact, under a box of red pencils, one missing.

The parallel frightened her.

She shook her head, trying to clear it. She looked into her own office, watching from her assistant’s desk outside the windowed barrier as a police officer questioned Will Jackson.

A single question continued to rise to the forefront of her mind: could she trust Will not to reveal the truth?

She had often thought of Will as her friend, especially in these last months when he had become her deputy. Certainly, they had butted heads—particularly when it came to Joan and Proctor—but she had always believed that she had had his support.

And yet, and yet… there had always been some kind of bond between Will and Smith—even given the number of times that Bea had screwed him over.

What if he ultimately chose to side with the dead woman? What if he saw it as the honorable thing to do, rather than saving himself? Vera couldn’t ignore the fact that he had often displayed both a tendency toward the noble _and_ a disturbing willingness to sabotage himself.

Watching as Will grew angry under the officer’s questioning, Vera accepted the inevitable: if Will chose to sacrifice them all, she needed a plan.

She would have to save herself.

***

Far away from Wentworth, from her friends behind bars, from her lover who even now was being transported to the coroner, Allie lay still in her narrow bed.

Unaware of the beeps of machines or the brightness of the lights, she dreamed. She had no body, but she felt the anxious sensation of reaching for something. There was something important out there—something that she had lost. If she could just get back to it…

But the machines continued to beep.

Allie’s eyes remained shut.

And Bea Smith’s body traveled ever father away from her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long delay between chapters! It's a crazy busy time.
> 
> As always, thoughts/theories/comments are very much appreciated. Kudos are love!


	7. 7

It had not been easy to secure a taxi.

Joan hadn’t wanted to hail one too close to the prison. She didn’t want anyone connecting her with the sirens that signaled Smith’s death. As a result, she walked over an hour through industrial and then suburban streets. She paused at a park drinking fountain to wash the blood off her hand, silently cursing whoever had designed the thing. Really, why must it require one hand to operate the stream while her other hand awkwardly scrubbed itself? Ridiculous.

She eventually reached a series of small, shabby shops and restaurants. Selecting a bar, she simply entered and ordered the bartender to call her a taxi.

Blinking in surprise, the bartender did exactly as she asked.

Once inside the vehicle, she sat in the back seat with her eyes closed. The taxi driver eyed her curiously from his rear-view mirror, but it was hardly the first time he’d been called in the middle of the afternoon to take someone home from the bar. Still, this one seemed familiar, somehow—where had he seen her before? He tried to make small talk, asking about her day, but she simply glared at him, saying nothing.

The driver quickly lapsed into silence.

He finally stopped in front of the requested address. Still silent, she paid him with cash, immediately turning her back on him as he drove away.

When she got to her front door, she hesitated.

Hesitation wasn’t her style. Joan focused, planned, and then took action. Hesitation was for the little people of the world—people like Vera—who second-guessed every thought, every move.

But, in this case… perhaps hesitation was necessary. She had no idea whether or not Shayne would still be in her home. He had promised to arrive at the courthouse this morning, ready to eliminate Jesper. What had he done when Jesper’s brawler never showed up? She had searched for him in the crowd as she left—a free woman—but it was so difficult to see through all of the reporters.

Joan had the uneasy feeling that Shayne hadn’t been there. The question was: what did that mean? Had he been willing to go through with her plan?

Was he still on her side?

_Would he tell anyone about their agreement?_

She shook her head. She had gotten this far. Now was not the time to dawdle.

She turned the key in the lock, confidently pushing open the door.

And froze.

It was… it was… abhorrent.

Her neat, orderly, _clean_ home was a disgusting mess. The stench of abandoned food struck her nostrils as she pushed past discarded pizza boxes. Half-empty beer bottles lay scattered and spilled on every surface. The television blared, unwatched. Drug paraphernalia lay spread on the floor.

There were _drugs_ in her _home_.

She heard a sound from the kitchen. Yanking her gaze away from the mess in her living room, she saw a young man—a stranger—shamble toward her.

“What the hell?” he yelped, stopping abruptly. “Who the fuck are you?” he yelled.

“Who am I?” Joan retorted, forcefully stepping through the debris, “who are you?” Surprisingly quick, she efficiently caught his arm, wrenching it behind his back, slamming him against the wall and using her own body to pin him there. “And why are you in my house?” she hissed into his ear.

“FUCK, lady! _Your_ fucking house?” The man tried to wriggle out of Joan’s grasp, but she held firm. “You’re Auntie Joan? Fucking let go of me!” he shouted again. “Shayne lets me stay here!”

“Not any more,” she replied. Her wounded hand still holding his arm, she gripped the back of his neck with her right hand, propelling him toward the door. “Get out!” she screamed, pushing him through the threshold. “Get out! Get out!” Her body started to shake. Spit flew from her mouth as she screamed. “ _Get out_!”

The man paused uncertainly for a brief second “My stuff…”

“ _NOW_!” Joan roared.

He fled.

She slammed the door shut, leaning against it. She kept her eyes closed. She couldn’t look—not yet. It was too much. She tried to calm her breathing. She needed to maintain control.

Slowly, slowly, she opened her eyes and turned around to face the disarray. “My home…” she whispered pathetically. “My clean home…”

***

The police had departed.

Vera sat in the Governor’s chair, her head in her hands. The reality of all… all… _this_ … was beginning to sink in. She had effectively covered up a murder (or suicide?) to save her own skin.

A flash of anger surged through her. Well, so be it, she thought. Yes, what she had done was wrong, but it had been necessary. It was for the… for the…

Oh God.

She had almost said it was for the greater good.

She shook her head, staring out toward the activities yard.

No. She was not becoming Joan Ferguson. No, no, no.

She looked up when she heard a knock at her door. Jake stood in the doorway, looking concerned. “Governor?” he asked.

A wash of warmth flooded her. “Jake,” she whispered, holding out her hand. “Oh, God, Jake…”

His eyebrows furrowed as he hurried toward her.

“Wait!” she said, moving away to close the blinds. Turning back to him, she raised her face, tears clearly threatening to pour down her cheeks. “I need you,” she whispered.

He stood before her, gathering her into his arms. As she snuggled in closer, he surreptitiously scanned the office, his gaze pausing to focus on the CCTV displays currently running on Vera’s monitor. “Shhh,” he whispered into Vera’s soft hair, gently kissing the top of her head as he watched the livefeed of Will Jackson walking determinedly down a corridor. “Shhh. What’s wrong, Vera?” He pulled back to look into her face. “You can tell me. What’s going on?”

And in that moment, Vera desperately wanted to tell him everything. Absolutely everything—about Joan, about what she and Will had done, about what was tucked in her desk drawer even now—but something stopped her.

“It’s Smith. You know she’s dead.”

He nodded.

“I have to take the prisoners out of lockdown. And then I have to… I have to…”

He ran his thumb over her cheek, wiping away a tear. “And then you have to tell them that their friend and Top Dog has died.”

She sniffled. “And I have to report everything to Channing,” she added miserably. “I guess I should do that first. This may be the end of my job.”

Jake froze for a second. “No, no,” he said smoothly, his reassurance covering his momentary pause. “I’m sure that’s not the case. You’re a good governor, Vera. Channing’s not going to dump you over this.”

She sniffed again. “Thank you,” she murmured into his chest. “You’re so good to me.”

Staring again at the CCTV footage, he slowly rubbed her small back. “Say Vera,” he said after a minute, “what’s Will doing in the corridors?”

“What?” she asked, confused, turning in his arms.

“Oh, I’m sure it’s not important,” he replied, now rubbing her shoulders. “I just happened to glance at your monitor, and saw him. I thought you said that he was to be put on leave?”

“Oh. Oh, that’s right,” Vera paused, thinking hard. “I did say that. Only…”

Jake focused his attention back on her. His hands tightened on her shoulders. “Only…?”

“Only that may not be the best path to take right now,” Vera stated, moving away from him. “I’m sorry, Jake. I know that I had just promoted you to Acting Deputy, but you can understand how I need all of the officers right now.”

Jake moved toward the window. He stared out, unseeing. “Isn’t that a bit dangerous, Vera?” he asked, turning back to her.

“Dangerous?”

Jake nodded. “The man obviously has a drug problem. How do you know that he wasn’t the one who gave Novak the hot shot?”

Vera shook her head. “He wasn’t the one,” she stated confidently.

Jack abruptly stood straighter. “You know who did it?”

“No…” Vera replied slowly, “but I know it wasn’t him.”

“Vera, sweet thing,” he cajoled, pulling her into him again. “You have such a good heart, but you can’t simply believe people like that. He failed the drug test. Will’s my friend, too, but he could be lying to you! That’s what drug addicts do!”

Vera pulled herself away. “Jake, I think I’m perfectly capable of knowing who and what to believe. Will Jackson failed the test, yes, and I will certainly put him on probation. But he’s not the one who injected Novak. And…”

“And?” Jake asked, his eyes narrowed.

“And I need him right now,” Vera replied stubbornly. She looked up into his eyes. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she repeated, standing on tiptoe to bring her face to his. “Please understand,” she added, kissing him.

“Of course I understand,” Jake responded, his fingers softly tracing her cheeks. “But you need to be careful, Vera. We don’t want you jeopardizing your position for him.”

“I know,” she whispered. “And thank you.” She smiled. “Really, thank you, Jake. You’re exactly who I need right now.”

He returned her smile, encircling her tiny body with his arms. His eyes drifted back to her computer monitor. “I’ll always be exactly what you need,” he informed her softly, once again kissing the top of her head, his gaze focused on Will.

She sniffled one last time. “I know you will,” she murmured happily. Stepping away to wipe her eyes, she turned back toward her desk. “Now: let me call Channing to report the situation. And then…”

“And then you’ll tell the women.”

She nodded unhappily, already reaching for the phone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I know. Sorry for the VAKE. It had to be done (for now...).
> 
> As always, comments are very much appreciated! They help me more than you might imagine!
> 
> Kudos are love.


	8. 8

They were given special permission to come back to Wentworth before the lockdown was lifted.

Maxine felt an overwhelming sense of foreboding as she was escorted through the empty corridors. Something terrible was coming. She could feel it in the silence that permeated the hallways, in the draughts and air currents she didn’t normally feel, in the way the glaring lights seem to vibrate overhead.

She looked over to Linda. There were no more eyerolls, no more sarcastic jokes. Linda was as silent as the corridors.

Maxine felt the truth settle over her. Something terrible wasn’t coming. Something terrible was _here_.

They turned toward H Block.

She could only hope that she was wrong.

***

Vera slammed down the phone, throwing herself back into her chair with a huff. She glared hard at her desk, doing her best to blink away the tears that were trying to fall.

Her jaw spasmed, tightening.

Jake watched her silently from across the desk. “You were listening for a long time,” he said finally. “What exactly did Channing say?”

Vera shook her head. “I don’t want to go into it.” She swiveled her chair around, presenting him with her back.

Jake tilted his head as he watched her small shoulders start to shake. He waited another moment, then walked around the desk. Physically scooping her slight body from the chair, he swiveled her seat, sitting down, settling her in his lap.

Vera wrapped her arms around him and cried.

Jake rubbed small circles on her back as his gaze swept across the office, pausing on the inmate artwork hanging on the opposite wall.

No, he thought, staring at it. When he was governor, he definitely wouldn’t hang shit like that in his own view.

Vera hiccupped in her sobs, and he wrapped his arms tighter around her.

He wondered what Joan had hung there.

***

Joan had made a mental list:

  1. Call a locksmith. Get the locks changed.
  2. Clean while she was waiting for the locksmith. Disinfect everything.
  3. Call Channing. It was time to reassume her Governorship.



The hardest part was forcing herself to call the locksmith _before_ she started to scrub.

***

Linda closed the gate with a slam.

“I don’t know,” she said to Maxine, who stood on the other side of the bars. “I don’t know what’s going on. But…” she furtively looked around the corridor. “But I’d prepare yourself, Conway. This feels wrong even to me, and I’ve seen a lot of shit go down in this prison.”

Maxine nodded silently.

“But hey, cheer up,” Linda added. “At least you know it has nothing to do with the Freak! She’s gone!”

Maxine forced a smile. “Large mercies,” she replied.

Linda tilted her head toward Maxine’s cell. “Go lie down. You don’t want to be out here if the nausea starts. And enjoy the quiet—I’m sure the lockdown will be over soon, and all hell will break loose again.” She turned to go.

“Ms Miles?” Maxine called.

Linda turned back, a questioning look on her face.

“Just… thank you, again,” Maxine stated. “For everything.”

Linda ducked her head awkwardly before walking away.

Maxine stared around the empty common area, her gaze finally settling on Bea’s vacant cell.

***

Joan scrubbed.

She scrubbed and swept and mopped and wiped every surface. With each scour, she washed away Shayne, disinfecting her home, bleaching him from her existence.

When she was finished, she stood in the middle of her gleaming kitchen. She watched as the light reflected off the glass and chrome. She gazed at the perfectly ordered space.

And then she fell to her knees on the hard floor, bent double in sorrow and anguish for the little boy she hadn’t helped, and the young man who had betrayed her.

Baby Shayne. Jianna’s baby boy.

A cry was wrenched from her throat. She tried to cover it with her fingers, to stop the sound from leaving her body.

She hadn’t expected it to hurt this much.

***

Maxine lay on her bed, exhausted. She could never get over how the chemo could rob her of all of her energy, leaving her feeling like a dull sack of bones, and yet still prevent her from sleeping.

She tried to remind herself that she wouldn’t feel like this forever.

Her thoughts were interrupted by voices from the corridor. Heaving herself into a sitting position, she waited for the nausea to pass before forcing herself to stand in the doorframe.

She smiled as they came in, their own smiles widening in response as they greeted her, asking how she was doing, fussing around her.

Boomer. Liz. Doreen. Sonia. Her friends.

But no Bea.

She couldn’t hide her expression as the realization struck, and she saw them each recognize the fear for what it was.

“So… she’s not in her cell, then?” Sonia asked, her question quickly becoming a statement.

Maxine silently shook her head.

They exchanged glances.

“Come sit down, love,” Liz suggested, while Boomer rushed to pull out a chair for her.

Maxine sank down gratefully. “What happened?” she asked.

“We don’t know!” Doreen stated. “No one will tell us anything. The whole place went into lockdown… and now we’re here.”

“But what about Allie?” Liz asked impatiently. “How is she?”

“Better,” Maxine smiled. “Maybe.” She paused. “I’m not sure. I thought…” she contemplated the horrific moment when all of the sirens had gone off in Allie’s hospital room. “I thought we had lost her,” she admitted. “I think she died, for a moment. But then her eyes suddenly opened, and she seemed to come back!”

They looked around soberly at each other.

“That’s fucking creepy,” Boomer finally admitted.

“Boomer!” Doreen admonished.

“What?” Boomer asked, her eyes wide. “It _is_! Hey, I’m glad that she’s getting better, but… oh wait!” She leaned forward. “Do you reckon she had an out-of-body experience? Like did she see a tunnel and light and shit?”

Liz shook her head at Boomer’s questions.

Maxine found herself grinning. “I have no idea, Boomer,” she replied gently. “You’ll just have to ask her when she’s back.”

“Yeah… yeah, but I’ll have to wait my turn thought, won’t I?” Boomer joked in reply. “Because Bea’ll be getting pretty busy with her, and…” she trailed off.

Once again, they regarded each other with helpless gazes.

“Bea _has_ to be okay,” Maxine said softly.

Liz gently patted her hand. “All we can do is wait, love. All we can do is wait.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thoughts/comments/theories are appreciated. Kudos are love.


	9. 9

Bridget sat at her kitchen table, finishing case files. She smiled as strong fingers curled lightly around her eyes.

“Guess who?” came a voice behind her.

“Umm…” Bridget pretended to consider. “Joan Ferguson!”

“Fuck off!” Franky laughed, removing her hands. She leaned over, placing a soft kiss on Bridget’s lips.

Bridget hummed happily. “Mmmm,” she murmured. “That’s nice.”

“Well, of course!” Franky retorted, gently caressing her shoulder before heading toward the kitchen cupboards. “I am the epitome of lesbian lovers!” she exclaimed, rounding the table. “I am the pinnacle of pussy aficionados! I am…” she paused, rifling through the cupboards.

“You are hungry,” Bridget finished for her.

“I am hungry,” Franky agreed. “Seriously, Gidge, you would be too, after the day I’ve had.” She started to pull ingredients from Bridget’s shelves.

“Bad?” Bridget asked.

“I don’t even know where to begin!” Franky stated, grabbing a cutting board. “I assume you heard about the Freak?”

“That she was acquitted? I’ll have my work cut out for me tomorrow.”

“That’s only the half of it, Gidge,” Franky turned suddenly serious. “It was the Freak who gave the hot shot to Allie.”

“What?” Bridget asked, alarmed. “How?”

Franky shrugged. “I don’t know how Ferguson did it, but she told Bea that Allie was ‘collateral damage.’ And I don’t think Allie’s okay—it seemed pretty serious. Bea left to take a phone call with her.” She picked out onions. “Red has it _bad_ , by the way. It’s disgustingly sweet.”

Bridget’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean ‘just before she left to take a phone call?’ How do _you_ know about this hot shot, Franky?”

Franky’s hand paused while she chose a knife. “I visited her,” she stated slowly.

“You visited Bea Smith? In Wentworth?” Bridget stood, leaning on the table.

Franky nodded.

“Is that a good idea?” Bridget asked. “Are you ready to visit Wentworth?”

Franky put the knife down. She turned to the sink, rinsing her hands. Drying them, she finally approached Bridget. “This wasn’t about me being ready to go back to Wentworth,” she informed her, reaching for Bridget’s waist, pulling her close to her. “This was about saving a kid’s life. This was about stopping the Freak.”

Bridget returned the embrace, but shook her head. “What are you trying to tell me, Franky?”

“Do you remember Nils Jesper? Ferguson’s hit man?”

Bridget nodded.

“Ferguson convinced Shayne—Jianna’s son—to kill Jesper!”

“What?” Bridget pulled back. “I just heard that his brawler had gone missing! Have you told anyone? You have to go to the police, Franky! You have to tell them what you know! If Shayne killed Jesper…”

“No, no, Gidge,” Franky responded, shaking her head. “It wasn’t Shayne. I stopped him! Red called me, warning me about it, and so I went to Ferguson’s house to talk to him—”

“You went _where_?”

“It doesn’t matter!” Franky interrupted, holding tightly onto Bridget’s arms. “He wasn’t there. I found him near the courthouse. He had a gun, and he was convinced that he had to kill Jesper ‘for Auntie Joan!’”

“Oh my God…” Bridget muttered. She abruptly pulled out a chair, sitting down. “I should have known! Why didn’t I see this coming? I should have tried harder to get her sent back to the psychiatric facility. She should never have been released into Wentworth…”

Franky kneeled from behind the chair, wrapping her arms around Bridget’s shoulders. “We all know she’s a murderer, Gidge. But she gets around the system. This isn’t _your_ fault.”

“I knew that she was a danger,” Bridget responded. “I knew that she was a psychopath without limits. I just thought, once she was placed in isolation…”

Franky squeezed her tightly, wrapping her hands over Bridget’s heart. “Not. Your. Fault.”

Bridget covered Franky’s hands with her own. “But you stopped Shayne? So if it wasn’t him… who got to Jesper? And how did Ferguson get out of her cell to give the hot shot to Novak?”

Franky leaned her cheek against Bridget’s shoulder. “I wish I knew, Gidge. I wish I knew.”

***

Kneeling, the wood of the floor hard against her knees, Joan clutched her torso. Rocking back and forth, she tried to control the heaving sobs coming in and out of her body. She smacked herself hard against the cheek.

“Stop that!” she commanded herself. “Take control!”

She continued to rock, wiping tears even as she pushed away memories of Shayne.

“Focus,” she told herself, purposely removing her hands from her face.

“Think.”

“Plan.”

She stopped rocking.

She stood.

Control.

It was time to call Channing.

***

Bridget leaned into Franky’s arms. “Either way,” she admonished, “you shouldn’t have taken this onto yourself. You should have called the police!”

“I couldn’t!” Franky cried. “I had to protect Shayne! He’s just a kid, Gidge. He’s a kid who’s been manipulated by Ferguson. The police would have seen him with the gun and shot first, asking questions later.” She stood, releasing Bridget. “I couldn’t let that happen to him,” she stated quietly.

Bridget also stood, turning to face Franky, gently placing her hand on her arm. “Because he was you, at his age.”

“Stop with the psych crap!” Franky exclaimed, pulling back.

“I’m not trying to antagonize you, Franky,” Bridget explained. “I know that you saved Shayne—I _love_ that you have this great big heart,” she gently placed her hand over Franky’s heart, “and that you genuinely wanted to help him. But you have to see how what you did today can be interpreted as a kind of self sabotage.” She removed her hand, sitting back down, gesturing to Franky to sit in the other chair. “Did you stop at any time to consider the risk to yourself? What if the police had caught you with him? What if he had shot you?”

Franky stared at the chair. “It came damn near close to that last one.”

“ _What_?” Bridget practically roared.

Franky gave her a lopsided smile. Sitting down, she clasped Bridget’s hands. “I understand what you’re saying. I really do. And I _did_ consider the consequences—some of them, at least.”

Bridget’s look was stern.

“Gidge, that’s the thing: I knew him. I knew that I could stop him, if I could just get to him in time. No one else could do that—not the police, no one. If I hadn’t gotten to him, and if Jesper had shown up…”

Bridget sighed. “There would have been a dead kid on the steps of the courthouse.”

Franky nodded.

Bridget looked away, staring at something unseen on the floor. “I understand, Franky,” she said, turning back to face her, “but I want you to understand this: you’re not in prison, and you’re not Top Dog. You don’t have to make all the decisions by yourself anymore. You can talk to others—you can talk to me—and we will help you.” She leaned forward, placing her forehead against Franky’s. “Be careful with this new life,” she breathed, pulling back to stare into Franky’s eyes. “It’s beautiful and hopeful, and I don’t want you to lose it!”

Franky stared back. “I won’t, Gidge,” she promised. “I’ve finally found a life I want. I’m not going to let it go!”

Bridget smiled, finding Franky’s lips with her own.

They were interrupted by the persistent ringing of the telephone.

“No!” Franky wailed, trying to hold on to Bridget. “Don’t answer it! I’m busy living my beautiful and hopeful life!”

Bridget chuckled. Looking at the phone display, her brow suddenly furrowed. “It’s Wentworth,” she stated.

“Now?” Franky asked, looking at the clock. “It’s almost seven. Your work hours are long over.”

“Something must have happened,” Bridget responded uneasily. “Hello?” she asked into the phone.

Franky leaned back in her chair, watching.

“Yes, Vera… what kind of emergency?... What?” Bridget looked shocked. “No!” she exclaimed, abruptly sitting. “Who did it? … No, no. I understand, Vera. It was just the shock. I’ll be right there.” She ended the call, absently placing the phone on the table.

“Gidge?” Franky asked anxiously as Bridget sat immobile. “Gidge? What’s happened? Is it Allie? What’s wrong?”

After a long pause, Bridget turned unseeing eyes toward her. “Bea Smith,” she said, finally.

Franky’s stomach seemed to flip. “What’s happened to Red?”

Bridget stared at her.

“She’s dead.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was... hard. I like Fridget, but I'm not a natural Fridget writer. I hope that the characters feel at least a tiny bit realistic!
> 
> As always, thoughts/comments/theories about where this fic is going are much appreciated! Kudos are love.


	10. 10

“What?” Franky asked, unable to process Bridget’s words.

Bridget blinked, forcing her mind to work past her own shock. She watched Franky’s mouth open and close. She watched her inability to speak, to comprehend. She saw the moment when Franky’s reflex coping mechanism—anger—swung into action, desperately trying to protect Franky’s enormous, soft heart.

“It was the Freak,” Franky stated unequivocally.

“No, oh, Franky…” Bridget now wrapped her own arms around Franky, gently rocking their bodies together. “No. Ferguson was released earlier today. You know it can’t be her.”

“It was _her_ , Gidge!” Franky exclaimed emphatically, her voice rising. “I _know_ it. I can feel it!”

“Shhh,” Bridget cooed quietly. “That’s your anger talking, Franky. You haven’t had time to process this news yet.”

“Don’t tell me how I feel!” Franky cried, pulling away from Bridget’s arms. She stood up, swinging around to face Bridget. “You don’t know the Freak like I do! She always had this weird obsession with Red. And Bea was _strong_ , Gidge—hell, I know! I tried to take her out a couple of times myself! No one but the Freak could have done this. No one would even have tried…”

“Franky,” Bridget said, trying to calm her, “she was Top Dog. She had a permanent target on her back…”

“She wasn’t!” Franky returned. “She told me today! She gave it up to be with Allie.” Franky turned, pacing across the kitchen floor. “She can’t be… she can’t be dead…” she repeated to herself, her fists clenched tightly at her sides.

Bridget looked at her with anguish. Franky would need so much help to process Bea’s death. This could be, in all likelihood, a crossroads for her. Would she allow anger and revenge to rule her life again?

But Bridget also needed to get to Wentworth. She needed to be there when Vera revealed the truth.

Franky abruptly stopped, pivoting to face Bridget. “Don’t you see?” she asked her, spreading her hands wide. “Red was no longer a threat to anyone! No one had any reason to hurt her! It _had_ to be the Freak!

“ _And now she’s coming after each of us_!”

***

Joan efficiently dialed Derek Channing’s home telephone number.

“Derek,” she said softly, purringly, when he answered, her voice like a lover’s.

“Joan,” Channing retorted flatly. “You have some bloody nerve calling me at home. Just can’t wait to be Governor again, can you?”

Her lips curled into a smile. “I go where I’m needed.”

“Well, you’re not needed at Wentworth,” came the tight reply.

Joan’s hand gripped the telephone. “Would you care to explain what you mean by that comment?” she asked acidly.

“Exactly what I said,” Channing replied. “There is no position for you at Wentworth. There will _never_ be a position for you at Wentworth. Hell, if I do it right, there won’t be a job for you in corrections anywhere in this entire country!”

Joan was silent.

“Have you considered emigration, Joan?” Derek taunted lazily. She could hear the smile in his voice. “Perhaps somewhere on the other side of the world? I hear Canada’s nice this time of year. Maybe a bit cold…”

Joan’s eye twitched. “You have no grounds for this…” she started.

“No grounds? Come on, Joan. You and I both know that your ‘acquittal’ was shady at best. Do you really think the Board would simply allow you to return? You probably burnt down the prison, Joan! You were in a mental asylum! And, in all likelihood, you paid a hitman to murder Harry Smith! You’re fucking _psycho_ , Joan!”

Joan’s damaged hand clenched. It pulled at her hair. This was not how she had envisioned this telephone call. This was not going according to plan.

Channing laughed. “No nasty comeback? You don’t even know what to say, do you, Joan? You were so certain that you would simply resume the governorship…”

“Have you forgotten,” Joan replied sharply, “that I know about your… indiscretions, Derek? The brothels? The parolees?”

“Oh no, Joan. I cleaned house—and _really_ cleaned it, this time. You can’t play that against me again. You have nothing!”

“I have the law,” she retorted. “How do you think the Board will feel once I sue them for illegally replacing me while I was… indisposed?”

“Joan, you and I both know that there are no legal grounds here. You were hardly on maternity leave—you were in prison, awaiting a trial! The Board’s replacement was entirely legal. And consider the optics; how would it look if we replaced Vera—the new media darling, by the way—with _you_?” He laughed again. “Face it, Joan: you’re done!”

Joan was breathing heavily. Her nostrils flared. She must think…

She abruptly hung up on Channing.

‘Optics,’ he had said…

She pulled her hand away from her hair, forcing the tightened fingers to relax.

Focus.

Think.

Plan.

She had not gone through all of this to lose the governorship—especially not to _Vera_.

She _would_ be Governor, again.

***

Bridget gently took both of Franky’s hands, pulling her toward her. When she was close, Bridget wrapped her arms around Franky, holding her still. “Breathe, Franky,” she instructed. “Just breathe.”

Franky felt her anger well up inside her, stronger and stronger. She had to call on all of her control not to shove Bridget, not to break from her arms. She knew that she wasn’t angry with Bridget, but the fury continued to build, nonetheless. Her body started to shake with tension.

“Just breathe,” Bridget whispered again, still clutching Franky tightly to her, pinning Franky’s arms to her sides as her own arms continued to encircle her. “Breathe.”

Instead of lashing out, instead of pushing Bridget and running away, as she so desperately wanted to do, Franky released a loud, piercing wail. Into it she poured all of her love for Bea, for her girls; her rage and hate at the Freak; her frustration that she hadn’t been there to stop it, to save Bea; and finally the one aspect that underlay all of her other emotions: her fear that she was alone, that she had lost the one person in the world who truly understood what it meant to be Wentworth’s Top Dog, and what it meant to give that up. She loved Bridget, but Bridget could never understand that part of her life. Only Bea could. Only Bea had experienced it, too.

In that moment, Franky’s anger merged with her first stages of grief, and her wail turned into a cry for all that she had lost. “Bea!” she keened. “Bea! You can’t leave me alone like this!”

Bridget, comprehending Franky’s loss but unable to feel it, to understand it in the same way, continued to hold her tight. Vera and the women be damned. She would get to Wentworth when she could. In this moment, Franky needed her, and Franky would always be her priority.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really love the friendship that the show developed between Bea and Franky. I think they share a common bond that no one else could understand, and I wanted to incorporate that a bit. 
> 
> As for Joan... I, too, desperately want her to be the Governor again, but I feel like it wouldn't be as straightforward as simply continuing from where she left off!
> 
> As always, thoughts/comments/theories are very welcome! Kudos are love.


	11. 11

Eventually Franky quieted. Sniffling, she pulled away from Bridget. “You have to go to Wentworth now,” she stated.

Bridget gently stroked Franky’s shoulders. “I’m not leaving you, Franky. They can wait to be told. _You_ need me now.”

Franky shook her head, trying to make Bridget understand. “No, Gidge. No. The women need to know. They _deserve_ to know. We—they—have enough taken away from them in that place.” She took a deep breath. “You can’t take away their right to know what’s happening as it happens. That’s not fair.”

Bridget leaned into Franky, gently laying her cheek on Franky’s shoulder. “I don’t care about what’s fair to them,” she whispered. “I don’t care about my job. I care about _you_ , Franky. I care about _your_ pain.”

Franky leaned her own cheek against Bridget’s forehead. “I know you do, Gidge. And that’s why I know I’ll be okay.” They stood silently for a long moment, bodies pressed closely together. Franky exhaled, pulling herself away from Bridget. “The women don’t have what we have,” she reminded her forcefully. “They need you to help them through this. They need you to be there.”

Bridget stared closely into Franky’s eyes. She sighed.

“Come on,” Franky ordered, wiping the tears from her own cheeks. “I’ll get the keys.”

“What?” Bridget asked, raising her head, suddenly confused.

“You don’t think you’re going there alone, do you?” Franky replied, reaching across the counter for the car keys.

“Franky, you know you can’t go in there!

“I know that, Gidge! But I sure as hell am not going to stay in your damn kitchen while you tell my friends about Red!” She strode purposefully to the door. “I’m going with you.” She suddenly halted, turning back to Bridget, pointing with her finger. “And I want you to tell them that they’re not alone.” Her voice faltered. “I want you to tell them that I’m sitting in that car, just on the other side of the wall, and that I’m with them. They’re not alone, Gidge!” She stared hard at Bridget, blinking back tears. “They’re my girls! _They’re not alone_.”

Bridget nodded. “I’ll tell them,” she whispered.

“Damn right,” Franky replied, letting out a shaky breath as she opened the door.

It was time to go back to Wentworth.

***

Pain, Maxine thought, is no less cruel when you see it coming. And that was wrong. There ought to be a way to make pain kind, to gentle it, to stop the suffering as pain’s sharp blade slices into and through you.

But, like so many other injustices in life, that was not the case.

She sat with the others—with Boomer, unable to keep still; with Liz and Sonia, quietly chatting with each other; with Doreen, staring absently at a magazine.

It was difficult to sit here, waiting for news about Bea. Previously, Maxine had assumed that she had become the epitome of the patient person. Everyone was forced to become patient in Wentworth. They stood in queues to use the phones. They stood in queues to eat. They queued to take showers.

But Maxine had to be extra patient. She waited in a queue to get her blood drawn. She waited in a queue for her chemo drugs.

She waited for the effects of testosterone to ravage her feminine body.

She waited to die.

No. She knew she couldn’t think like that. Bea would have shouted at her for thinking like that.

And Bea _still_ would. They had no reason to think she was dead! Yes, there had been a code black, and yes, she was pretty sure that Bea was somehow involved, but… well, it was Bea! How many hits had Bea taken before?

Bea always came back.

That’s who Bea was.

She nodded to herself.

Suddenly Maxine tilted her head, hearing the sound of footsteps coming from the corridor outside.

Almost as one, the women turned toward the gate.

Vera appeared. She halted in the entryway, as if unable to proceed farther. Her face was stern.

Bridget Westfall emerged beside her.

“No,” Maxine whispered. “No!”

Boomer looked confusedly from Vera to Maxine, then back again. “What the fuck is going on?” she asked, jumping from her chair.

“Boomer, love, sit down!” Liz exclaimed as she tugged at Boomer’s shirt, pulling her to sit down with the rest of them. “I think… I think the governor has something important to tell us.”

No one commented on the crack in Liz’s voice, belying her seeming calm.

Vera unlocked the gate. She stood in front of the women, her arms crossed defensively across her chest.

“Is Bea okay, Ms. Bennett?” Doreen asked earnestly. “We heard about the code black, and she’s not here, and… where is she? Is she all right?”

Vera opened her mouth, but couldn’t seem to say anything.

“Fucking tell us what’s going on!” Boomer shouted, again leaping up from her chair.

“Please, Ms. Bennett,” Doreen implored simultaneously. “You’re scaring us!”

Maxine sat silently, her still-living body hurting, waiting for the others to understand.

Vera shook her head. “I’m sorry,” she uttered quietly. “I’m so sorry—”

Bridget put her hand on Vera’s arm.

“WHAT THE FUCK IS FUCKING HAPPENING?” Boomer yelled.

“Smith!” Vera blurted. She lifted her chin, straightening her posture. Forcing herself to appear calm and authoritative, she finally told the women the truth.

“Bea Smith is dead.”

There was silence.

Boomer fell back into her chair.

Doreen dropped the magazine she had been clutching defensively.

Sonia sighed.

Silence.

“How?” Liz finally uttered.

Maxine stared out the window. Liz had asked the big question. She should listen to the Governor’s reply. But somehow, somehow…

She didn’t care.

It didn’t matter.

What mattered was that Bea was really and truly gone.

She didn’t know how to understand that.

“It was a shivving,” Vera informed them. “She was found in the corridor. No,” she said, raising her hand and forestalling Boomer’s outburst, “we don’t know who did it yet.”

The women watched her, waiting for more, but Vera had nothing more to give them. “I’m sorry,” she repeated, seemingly the only thing she could say. “I’m sorry.”

Bridget could see Vera faltering. She stepped forward. “I know you were all close with Bea. I know that you must each feel confused, possibly even angry. I want you to know that I’m here for each of you. I’m here to listen.”

The women looked away.

The silence lengthened.

“And,” Bridget continued, glancing nervously at Vera, “I have a message from Franky.” She shifted her gaze back to the women, smiling. “She wanted you to know that you’re not alone. She’s here, in the parking lot. She wanted to be here when you found out. She wanted to be with ‘her girls.’”

Boomer looked toward the window. “Franky?” she asked.

Vera glared subtly at Bridget.

“You’re not alone,” Bridget repeated.

Vera cleared her throat. “That’s all for now. We’ll be asking for your help to try to determine the guilty party. In the meantime, I hope that you will each take the opportunity to talk with Ms. Westfall. And…” she looked closely at each woman. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

The women continued to stare at her, their gazes making her feel guilty, as if they knew her own role in Smith’s death. Vera felt the inadequacy of her words. She abruptly turned on her heel and walked toward the gate. Bridget followed.

“Bea’s dead?” Vera heard Boomer ask, finally processing the information.

She shut the gate, all but fleeing away.

The silence remained behind her.

No, Maxine thought abstractly, once again staring out the window. There really was no way to stop pain’s sharp blade from slicing into and through you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been dreading writing this chapter. I suspect that people may be disappointed that there aren't more fireworks in terms of everyone's reactions to Bea's death, but I feel like most of the characters would be in shock first. The understanding of their loss (and the ramifications of that understanding) will happen slowly...
> 
> As always, thoughts/comments/theories are very much appreciated! Kudos are love.


	12. 12

Bridget followed Vera down the hallway. Lost in thought, she pondered how to help the women. She couldn’t force them into sessions with her, of course, but she would need to find some way to give them an outlet for their emotions. She rounded a corner, trailing in the wake of Vera’s heels. Smith’s death would be devastating to them—it wasn’t simply something that they would accept easily.

She stumbled, quickly sidestepping to prevent herself from running hard into Vera, who had abruptly stopped and was now facing her.

“Vera?” Bridget asked. “Are you—”

“You had no right to say that!” Vera hissed vehemently.

“What?” Bridget was taken aback. “What are you—”

“Franky Doyle!” Vera exclaimed, again interrupting Bridget. “You basically just flaunted you relationship to the women—your _illegal_ relationship!”

“Governor,” Bridget stepped back, holding her hands up in placation, “Franky is no longer living with me. She is not in violation of that aspect of her parole—”

“It’s _you_!” Vera cried. “It’s you, not Franky, who’s in violation! Have you forgotten that you treated her while she was in Wentworth? Have you forgotten that you are _still_ an employee of this prison? Do you understand the legal ramifications of this—the potential lawsuits, if anyone found out, not to mention the obvious ethical issues at stake? For fuck’s sake, Bridget!” Vera turned to face the wall, slapping her hand against it. “You know that prisoners can’t legally give consent!” She turned back to face Bridget, her expression livid. “And Doyle may be out, but she’s still on parole—or have you forgotten what parole is? It means that she’s still a prisoner, serving the remainder of her time on the outside. And you are an employee of her prison! _It is illegal for you to have a relationship with her_!”

Bridget’s could only stare at her. “I hadn’t…” she swallowed. “I hadn’t thought of it that way,” she admitted. “I had fulfilled my ethical and professional obligations when I stopped treating her. And being on parole meant that she was out…”

Vera rolled her eyes. “Why did you think I was so upset when I first found out?” she asked, exasperated. “Did you think it was only because you had betrayed my trust?”

“Well…” Bridget didn’t continue.

Vera looked away, shaking her head. “Good to know you think I’m _that_ pathetic.”

“You’re not pathetic,” Bridget stated sharply.

Vera sighed, running her hand over her tightly coiled hair. “The point is that you have to keep this relationship secret. This is not a relationship that should exist.” She looked closely at Bridget. “Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Bridget nodded emphatically. “I understand, Vera—really, I do. And I’ll make sure that Franky understands, as well. And—oh no,” Bridget groaned.

“What?” Vera asked warily.

Bridget gave her a level look. “Ferguson,” she stated.

Vera felt her stomach flip over. “What about Ferguson?” she asked slowly.

“She knows. She knows about Franky and I—I don’t know how,” she said quickly, before Vera could ask, “but she _knows_ , Vera. She made that clear.”

“And did you acknowledge it, when she asked?”

Bridget dropped her gaze, contemplating. “No,” she said finally, looking up. “No, it was all on her side—she said that she could smell her on me, and then later, after Franky had left, she mentioned that she couldn’t smell her any more.”

“ _Smell_ her on you?” Vera asked. “What is she, a bloodhound?”

Bridget chuckled. “That’s almost word for word what Franky commented, too.”

Vera frowned. “Thank you for that. Well," she sighed. "You’d better hope that Ferguson doesn’t have any real evidence of that relationship.” She paused. “Who knows how she’d use it.”

They stared at each other.

“Fuck,” Bridget stated, “the Freak’s coming after us.”

***

Joan stared down at the business card in her hand.

Hayley Jovanka, Journalist, Ten Eyewitness News.

“Optics,” Channing had said.

Smiling, she dialed.

***

Back in Vera’s office, Bridget gathered the completed list of grief strategies and programs she had just devised with the Governor. She watched as Vera leaned back in her chair, exhausted.

“Vera?” she asked, hesitating. “There’s one other thing I think you should know…”

“What has Franky done now?” Vera asked flatly.

“No, no,” Bridget smiled. “Nothing like that. But… it _is_ serious. Have you heard from the hospital? How’s Novak?”

“Still in critical condition,” Vera replied. “It looked like she wasn’t going to make it, but then she suddenly regained consciousness, if only for a moment. The doctors are just waiting, at this point.”

Bridget nodded. “I saw that you listed the cause as an overdose.”

Vera stiffened. “Yes. Smith found her. It was fairly obvious, what with her history of drug abuse…”

“Has no one considered that she was given a hot shot?”

Vera’s eyes narrowed. “What, exactly, are you getting at?”

Bridget regarded her levelly. “It was Ferguson,” she stated. “Smith told Franky earlier today. Ferguson apparently gloated about it.”

Vera swallowed, her heart beating rapidly. “And does Franky have any proof?”

“No,” Bridget stated, defeated. “But—wait! She had to have gotten out of Protection somehow, right? Have you checked the CCTV feed?”

Vera shook her head. “I did. There’s nothing.”

“Nothing?” Bridget asked, puzzled. “The camera didn’t show her leaving Protection?”

Vera hesitated. “The camera didn’t show anything,” she said finally, “because the tape has been wiped.”

“What?” Bridget exclaimed.

Vera nodded miserably.

Bridget leaned forward. “You have to go to the police, Vera. You have to tell the Board—”

“The police already know about our camera issues.”

Bridget sat back hard against her chair. “You know what this means, don’t you?” she murmured softly.

Vera stared at her.

“Ferguson has an accomplice among the guards.”

Vera’s gaze dropped to her hands. “I know,” she stated quietly. “I know.”

“It could be anyone, Vera,” Bridget emphasized, unwilling to let it drop.

Vera nodded, sighing.

Bridget looked closely at her. “It could even be you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thoughts/theories/comments are very much appreciated. Kudos mean love!


	13. 13

“We’re too late to film and edit a proper interview for the news tonight,” Hayley Jovanka was saying, thinking aloud, “but we could do the interview and pull a soundbite to advertise the full interview tomorrow…”

“Fine,” Joan replied crisply. She hated the thought of the interview, of being scrutinized, dissected… but sacrifices must be made.

Optics, she reminded herself.

“Excellent,” Hayley replied. “What’s your address? I can bring a crew over within the hour.”

What?

“No,” Joan blurted abruptly, “not my home.” Her hand spasmed around the phone. “That is, I would prefer to film the interview elsewhere.”

There was silence for a moment from the other end.

“Ms Ferguson, let me make sure I understand our deal: if I provide for you the kind of positive exposure you want, potentially helping you to regain the governorship, then you will allow me continued access to your story, as well as to exclusives regarding all happenings within the prison, should you be reinstated as governor.”

“Yes,” Joan returned shortly. “ _When_ I am reinstated. It is a mutually beneficial scenario.”

“Right,” Hayley agreed. “Then… if I could offer you some advice, Joan…”

Joan’s jaw clenched. “Yes, _Hayley_?”

“Interviews performed within the home humanize the subject. They let people know that there is more to you than just an ex-governor. We keep it subtle: just little trinkets in the background, maybe a photograph next to you. That kind of thing.”

Joan listened, her eyes surveying her space in a new way, as a stranger might. How had Vera viewed her house when she came for dinner that one time?

Joan consciously chose not to think about the fact that Vera had been the only guest to ever see her home.

Her gaze swept over the fencing foils, the violin, the space where the photo of her father used to be.

“And you have a perception problem, Joan,” she heard Hayley continue. “You seem cold, aloof. Kind of… freakish…”

Freak.

Her father told her she wasn’t a freak. But he was gone. The space looked strange without the photograph. But… she couldn’t keep it on display.

Not after…

“Joan?” Hayley interrupted sharply. “Ms Ferguson? Are you still there?”

She could still hear _his_ voice, _his_ words. She had revealed that her father had abandoned her. And then _he_  had replied that maybe she didn’t need him anymore. She had _him_.

She had been learning empathy.

“I’m here,” Joan replied quietly. “We will film the interview here.”

When she became Governor, all the chaos would disappear.

She would be in control again.

***

“Me,” Vera stated blandly. “You think _I_ might have helped Ferguson to give Novak a hot shot.” She shook her head, looking out into the night. “I can’t believe you would even say that.”

Bridget sighed, rubbing her face with her hands. “I know. I know.” She sighed again. “But, Vera, I have to be certain.” She looked at her closely. “You’re… acting strangely. Your affect is off. I can’t help but think there’s something you’re not telling me.”

Vera fidgeted in her chair, still looking into floodlights from the outer walls. “I’m the Governor,” she exclaimed, finally turning back to face Bridget. “ _Of course_ there are things I can’t tell you!”

“But see? Even that,” Bridget pointed at Vera, making a little circle around Vera’s face. “That’s off. That’s not the normal you, Vera.”

“A prisoner died under my watch, and I just had to inform her best friends, one of whom is currently undergoing cancer treatments! You think that I’m likely to be normal right now?” Vera asked incredulously.

Bridget shook her head, holding up her hands. “You’re right, you’re absolutely right. And I should hardly be making accusations right now.” She rubbed her temple. “But Vera? Just remember: you’ve been her victim before. She was your mentor. You trusted her, you modeled yourself after her…”

“What?” Vera asked. “I did no such thing!”

Bridget’s look was full of meaning.

Vera sat back in her chair, suddenly exhausted. “Fine. But it’s effective. _I’m_ effective now.”

“You were always effective,” Bridget returned.

“No, I wasn’t,” Vera said quietly.

They sat in silence.

“My point,” Bridget stated finally, “is that Joan Ferguson is a psychopath. She is relentless. With enough time and resources, she could have gotten to anyone. And, apparently, she did.”

Vera threw up her hands. “And what do you want me to do about it? Do you want me to start a witch hunt among my own officers?”

“If Joan Ferguson gave a hot shot to Novak, she must be taken to trial again,” Bridget stated vehemently. “She must not be allowed to go free, Vera!”

“We have no proof!” Vera yelled, abruptly losing patience. “All we have are the words of a dead woman, given to you by your ex-con girlfriend! There is nothing I can do!”

Bridget stared at her, her head cocked to the side. She suddenly fell back in her chair. “Oh!”

Vera had trouble meeting her gaze.

“You already knew, didn’t you?” Bridget asked, her voice hushed. “You already knew about the hot shot!”

Vera forced herself to stare back, not replying.

“If it wasn’t you, then who?” Bridget asked. “How did you know?”

Vera’s gaze drifted back to the windows. “Ms. Westfall,” she stated, ignoring Bridget’s question. “I think it’s time for you to join your girlfriend and go home.”

Bridget sighed, watching her.

Vera continued to stare at the window. Her own reflection stared back.

Silently, Bridget packed up their papers, exiting the office.

Vera’s head fell back against her chair. Was she doomed to forever protect Joan Ferguson, to save herself?

Her reflection gave no reply.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, comments are very much appreciated! Let me know if you're reading, and what you think! 
> 
> Kudos are love.


	14. 14

Hayley Jovanka surveyed Joan’s home, her brow knit in consternation. “Where are the knickknacks?” she asked, looking around. “Where are the photos?”

“What you see is what I have,” Joan replied shortly, watching strangers invade her home.

“Joan,” Hayley said, at a loss as she toured the space. “This isn’t a home. This is like something out of American Psycho.” She turned to face her. “We need to humanize you. We need to make you likeable, relatable.” She continued to examine the space. “Do you have any pets?”

“I had a goldfish.”

“A goldfish?” Hayley repeated. “It’s something, at least. Where is it?”

“It died.”

Hayley rolled her eyes. “Of course it did. Well… we’ll figure out the personal stuff in a minute. First, I think we should do the interview in here,” she pointed to the dining room, “but without the table. We’ll move in the chair from the other room and set it up in front of the sideboard. You’ll look relaxed, cozy.”

“You’ll move…” Joan turned away, focusing on maintaining control. Not only were there strangers in her house, they were going to move things. They were going to touch her furniture, leave marks everywhere, move things where they didn’t belong…

“Mmm,” Hayley replied absently, framing the shot in her mind. “What about your bedroom, Joan? Do you have any photos in your bedroom?”

Joan’s eye twitched.

Focus.

“Make do with what you see, Jovanka,” she replied curtly. “Let’s get this over with.”

***

Derek Channing lay propped up in bed, naked, Rachel Sanger snuggled against his side. He absently stroked her hair as they watched the news together. “Can you believe this dickhead?” he asked, gesturing at the politician now speaking. “I could do it better than that!”

Rachel patted his chest. “I’m sure you could,” she replied reassuringly.

“Damn right,” he muttered. He yawned as the words “tomorrow: exclusive interview” flashed across the screen.

Joan Ferguson’s face suddenly appeared in high definition glory.

“What the _fuck_?” he yelped.

***

Vera and Jake sat together on the couch, an open bottle of wine discarded on the table in front of them. Vera cuddled into Jake, pressing her cheek against his chest as his arm gently held her shoulders. She breathed in deeply, doing her best to let all thoughts of Joan, of Smith, of everything that had happened drift away…

“Hey—hey!” Jake exclaimed. “Joan!”

Vera frowned into his stomach. Joan? What was he talking about?

“Vera, look! She’s on TV!”

Vera abruptly lifted her head. What?

“And our own Hayley Jovanka will bring you an exclusive interview,” the anchor announced, “with Wentworth’s infamous ex-Governor…”

***

“…Joan Ferguson. She was acquitted of all charges today. What will she do next?”

That’s the question, Maxine thought, not really caring. She was watching television only because she couldn’t sleep, and there was nothing better to do.

She sighed, lifting her hand to gently feel her scalp, where her hair used to be.

What was the point of it all?

She closed her eyes against the blue light of the screen.

Bea was dead.

She’d be dead soon, too.

What was the point?

***

Derek stood directly in front of the television. Fists clenched, genitals limp, he glared at the screen.

The anchorperson chirped. “Here’s a short clip of what you’ll see tomorrow night on Ten Eyewitness News!”

The screen showed Hayley Jovanka leaning forward, concern emanating from her posture. “Are you saying Governor Bennett is inept?” she asked.

A close-up of Joan’s face once again filled the screen. “Of course not,” Joan smiled. “Anything but. Vera Bennett is a consummate professional. I trained her myself.”

“But,” Hayley said, leaning further, “there’s something… She’s been promoted and demoted from that position before…”

Joan held up her hands. “I’m simply saying that there are… conditions… which make her governorship untenable…”

***

Vera’s breath came in shallow, rushed gasps.

She stared with horror at the screen. Did Joan—did Joan just—

“Fuck, did Joan just out your Hep C, Vera?” Jake exclaimed.

She gasped, gulping in air, but she couldn’t seem to get enough. “I can’t—I can’t breath! I can’t breathe!” she cried, shaking, sliding to the floor.

Jake roughly pushed the coffee table out of the way, spilling the bottle of wine. Ignoring it, he grasped Vera’s shoulders. “Hold your breath,” he told her urgently. “Hold it!”

Vera shook her head vigorously. “Can’t breathe—”

“Your body has too much oxygen,” Jake informed her urgently. “You’re having a panic attack. Hold your breath!”

Still Vera refused, shaking, looking around desperately.

Jake pulled her to him, enveloping her in his lap. He gently but firmly covered her mouth and nose.

She tried to yell, pushing against him, but he held firm.

After ten seconds, he let go of her nose. She inhaled sharply before he covered it again.

Vera stopped struggling.

He repeated blocking and unblocking her air flow until her breathing returned to normal.

Vera lay against him, exhausted. “Never do that again,” she told him angrily. “Never.”

“Okay,” he shrugged. “But it worked.”

Vera closed her eyes.

Jake stared back at the screen. Joan had balls. He had to give her that. A weather map now appeared. “Well,” he said, “I guess we’ll just have to tune in tomorrow.”

***

“You bitch!” Derek yelled into the phone. “You think this will help you? You think you’re going to get your job back after a stunt like that?”

Joan lovingly tapped the “end call” button.

She smiled.

***

Will Jackson lay sprawled on a couch, oblivious to the blaring of the television. The little mirror dropped from his hand, landing next to the now-empty bag of heroin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought we needed to move things along a bit...
> 
> As always, thoughts/comments/theories are VERY welcome! Let me know what you think!
> 
> Kudos are love.


	15. 15

 

DAY TWO

 

“Will! This is the third message I’ve left on your voicemail,” Vera hissed angrily into the phone late the next morning. “Why aren’t you at work? Get your arse here immediately!” She slammed the handset into its cradle.

It promptly fell out.

Vera made a guttural sound of sheer exasperation. Grabbing the handset again, she slammed it into its cradle three times in quick succession, each time the force of the crash bouncing it right back out again. Frustrated, Vera finally threw the handset onto her desk, where it skidded across the smooth surface and fell over the edge, dragging the entire telephone unit with it.

“Fuck!” Vera yelled, falling back into her chair.

“I think you killed it, Vera,” Linda Miles drawled from the doorway, where she had watched Vera’s little tantrum with interest.

Vera ignored her. “Has Will Jackson reported in yet?” she asked tersely.

“Negative,” Linda replied.

“Tell him to see me as soon as he does,” Vera ordered. “Was there anything else?”

Linda nodded. “The detectives are back. They want to start questioning the inmates.”

Vera sighed. “Start with C Block,” she stated.

“Are you sure? Wouldn’t H Block make more sense—”

“Just do it, Linda!”

“Acknowledged,” Linda said, turning to walk quickly away from the office. “Ferguson's interview certainly got up your arse this morning…” she whispered under her breath, smiling.

Vera held her head in her hands, trying to regulate her breathing into long, slow breaths. The detectives had to start with anything other than H Block. She needed all the time she could get to figure out how to keep them from eventually questioning Kaz Proctor. Who knew what she might tell them…

Of course, did it even matter? Joan’s interview would run tonight, and she could only guess how many lies—and possible truths—the woman would reveal about her. Would she even have a job tomorrow at this time?

She slapped her hand against the desk in frustration.

Where the hell was Will?

***

News of both Bea’s death and Ferguson’s interview spread quickly throughout the prison. Maxine sat at the table with Liz and Sonia, her lunch tray untouched in front of her. She could hear all of the women chatting about it, wondering what had happened to Bea, excitedly speculating about what they thought the Freak was going to say, as if it was all some big reality television special.

“You really should try to eat,” Liz gently chided her. “You need to keep your strength up.”

Maxine did her best to summon a smile. “I’m really not hungry,” she replied. “Everything tastes awful.”

“I know, love,” Liz patted her hand. “I know.”

Maxine pushed the food around with her fork. She recognized, intellectually, that she was hurt. Bea’s death was still so new, so raw, and yet—with the exception of their little group—it appeared as if no cared. The women’s excitement felt like a betrayal. Had Bea truly meant so little to them?

Boomer joined them, slamming her tray onto the table. “Fucking cows,” she announced, dropping into her chair. “Bea’s died, and they’re all yammering about who did it and what the Freak is going to say.” She sniffled.

Sonia said nothing, but placed a consoling hand on her arm.

“That’s right,” Boomer suddenly yelled, springing up from her chair, pointing. “Fucking cows, all of you! She was your top dog, and it’s like you don’t even care that she’s dead!”

The cafeteria fell into silence.

Doreen appeared, quietly placing her own tray on the table and joining the small group of mourners.

Maxine contemplated the event distractedly, as if she was somehow watching everything from afar. The silence, she considered, was worse than the excitement.

Boomer started to cry.

“Oh Boomer! Love!” Maxine heard Liz exclaim helplessly. But Boomer couldn’t stop. “You’re cunts, all of you!” she cried as big, sloppy tears fell down her cheeks. “She protected us! She got us conjugals! She tried to stop all of you from killing yourselves on crap drugs!” She tried to wipe away the wetness with her hands, but the tears continued to fall. “She even did our hair! And not one of you gives a _fuck_ that she’s gone!”

Boomer fell back into her chair, Sonia rubbing small circles on her back.

“Fuck off,” Boomer exclaimed, shrugging. “I’m fine!”

Sonia shook her head and continued to rub her back. Maxine reached across the table, taking hold of Boomer’s hand. “ _You_ care,” she stated clearly. “You give a fuck. That’s what matters.”

Boomer looked away, embarrassed. Still trying to stop her tears, she nodded.

Maxine squeezed her hand reassuringly.

Collectively, the little H-Block family was startled when one of Kaz’s crew—Mel—suddenly dropped a small piece of paper onto their table. Looking down, Maxine recognized it as a pencil sketch of a flower. She looked back up at the woman—someone, frankly, she didn’t know overly well—and saw tears in her eyes.

“We _do_ care,” Mel told them. “Even if you don’t think we do, even if we had issues with her, she was Bea Smith. We respect her. We mourn her. We _do_ care.”

Maxine watched, shocked, as one by one each of the women placed hand-drawn flowers on their table. They were daisies, lilies, violets. Many were roses. Some were artistic, most were rough, unpolished, but the message was the same.

The women of Wentworth mourned for Bea Smith.

Maxine didn’t even try to wipe away her tears.

***

Vera, watching the scene on the CCTV feed in the Governor’s Office, felt overwhelmingly alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thoughts/opinions/theories are very welcome. Please leave a comment to let me know what you think. 
> 
> Kudos are love.


	16. 16

With a few notable exceptions (those in the slot, those in psych), the entire inmate population of Wentworth Correctional Centre gathered around their televisions to watch Hayley Jovanka’s interview with Joan Ferguson.

Boomer rushed in, brandishing her beloved Monte Carlos. “Have I missed it?” she shouted as she hurried to the little couch. “What’s the Freak saying?”

“You’re fine, love,” Liz replied, lifting the blanket for Boomer. “There’s still a couple of minutes.”

Boomer settled in as Sonia handed Liz a cup of tea. “I’ve only known Joan Ferguson as a prisoner,” Sonia pondered aloud, “and for all of your stories, she always appeared rather meek.”

“The Freak?” Boomer barked. “Meek? Fuck off, eh! That’s a good one!” Boomer waved her Monte Carlo in the air, dissolving into laughter.

Liz smiled at Boomer’s mirth, shaking her head. “Ferguson is anything but meek. Sonia, what you saw out there in the yard, in the lunch room… all of that was an act. Ferguson is manipulative and conniving. She’s lethal. And now that she’s out, well…”

Sonia quirked her head. “What on earth can she do now that she’s out?”

“Anything,” Liz replied heavily. “It’s not like she’s on parole. She’s a free woman. She could even…” Liz trailed off again, contemplating her thought.

“What?” Boomer asked. “She could what?”

“She could become Governor again.”

Boomer and Sonia stared at her.

“Interesting,” Sonia stated.

“What the fuck?” Boomer asked, processing this idea. “The Freak as Gov again? I’d like to watch her try! If she set one foot back in here, me and the girls would bash her!”

Liz nodded. “I suspect you’re right, Boomer. She’d have to be suicidal to come back here.”

Sonia stared at the television. “Oh, I don’t know,” she stated mildly.

The other two looked at her with incredulity.

Sonia shrugged gracefully. “I know a little something about women in power,” she explained. “They have to be driven, willing to make sacrifices. If Joan Ferguson is what you say she is, then I wouldn’t be surprised to see her try to get her old job back.”

“Fuck,” Boomer exclaimed, biting into her Monte Carlo. Liz leaned back, contemplating Sonia’s idea.

“In fact,” Sonia continued, “I wouldn’t be surprised if this interview tonight is her first step to taking back the Governorship. If the Board is reluctant to rehire her, then an interview would be an obvious attempt to bring public sympathy to her side.”

“Holy shit,” Boomer muttered. “But what about Ms. Bennett?”

Sonia pondered that. “Is Vera Bennett strong enough to take on Joan Ferguson?” she asked.

Liz and Boomer exchanged glances. “No fucking way!” Boomer said.

“Then if I was the Governor, I’d be very careful right now,” Sonia replied.

***

Maxine stood a little away from the others, listening to their conversation. She suspected that Sonia was right about the Freak, but she noted that none of the others had come to the ultimate conclusion yet. They didn’t yet recognize what the Freak’s return would mean.

She stared at the door to Bea’s cell. They had taped a picture of Bea to it, surrounding it with all of the little pencil-drawn flowers the women had presented to them.

It was a shrine.

Without Bea, Maxine knew, the Freak’s return was inevitable. They were like two sides of some ridiculous power struggle.

Only the struggle was gone, now, because Bea was gone.

Maxine gently traced one of the paper roses. She knew that it was only a matter of time before they would be forced to take them all down. Anything taped to cell doors was a violation. All of these little paper flowers would be tossed, discarded as rubbish.

And then Bea would truly disappear, like so many had disappeared before, leaving no tangible evidence that she had ever been there.

As would Maxine, in all probability.

Only the Freak would remain.

An arrow of anger pierced the numbness that had been surrounding her. Inside, Maxine grasped it, pulling it toward herself, embracing it. She would not allow the Freak to remain while Bea was dead.

Silently holding tight to her anger, she joined the others. She lifted her eyes to the television, fighting the lethargy, the numbness that had surrounded her, to concentrate on the screen.

It was time to focus on the Freak.

***

Vera Bennett clicked the livestream link to Joan’s interview. She wasn’t curled up on her comfy couch at home, with Jake; instead, she was alone in the darkened Governor’s office, the only light coming from the computer screen in front of her.

Jake had wanted to watch the interview together. He had talked about it all day, incessantly, as if it were some kind of ridiculous football match and he was a little kid excitedly announcing the stats of his favourite players. He kept going on and on about what he thought Joan would do and say, whether or not the Board would suddenly demote Vera and promote Joan. When, in a tantrum made up of equal parts anger and exasperation, she yelled that if she were demoted, he would be, too, she was shocked to notice a smug smile spread across his face. It existed only for the briefest second before he adjusted his expression, but Vera was sure she had seen it: he wasn’t worried about his own demotion.

Jake _wanted_ Joan to be governor.

She had no idea what to make of that.

She had thus spent the last several hours contemplating reasons for his strange smile, and had come to the conclusion that it was simply one of those weird opposite expressions that erupt when something shocking happens. Like when you’re told that someone has died, and you laugh—not because you’re happy that they died, or think it’s funny, but because your body just can’t process the correct emotional response.

So that was it. Shock. She had shocked Jake with her correct assessment of the reality of the situation, and that shock had come across as a smile because he couldn’t yet process everything.

The explanation made sense, and it was what she chose to believe.

Even so, she found herself making excuses not to be with him tonight. She wanted—needed—to watch Joan’s interview alone.

Thus she found herself unknowingly in the same position as all of the inmates under her charge, all locked within the walls of Wentworth, each focusing on the screen in front of them.

There finally appeared two dark eyes, staring straight into the camera, straight into her audience. Long fingers rose to gracefully push locks of lustrous dark hair into place.

Vera felt suddenly as if she might vomit.

Joan Ferguson smiled at them all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long delay in posting a chapter! Work managed to take over all of my free writing time again. (Sigh). In happier news, I should be able to post more regularly throughout the next few months, so I'll try to get this fic back up and running by posting at least twice a week.
> 
> As always, thoughts/comments/theories are very much appreciated, and kudos make my fanfic-writing heart happy.


	17. 17

_“In tonight’s exclusive interview,”_ Hayley Jovanka’s voice filled the prison, _“I’m joined by Joan Ferguson, past Governor of Wentworth Correctional Centre, who has just been acquitted of the murder of Harry Smith. Viewers will remember that Smith was the ex-husband of notorious Wentworth inmate Bea Smith, who is currently serving life without parole after her execution-style murder of crime family son Brayden Holt, whose mother, Jacs Holt, she also brutally stabbed with a pen.”_

“Yeah, and good on you for stabbing her, Bea!” Boomer shouted at the screen.

Maxine frowned. Jovanka’s summary was true, but it made Bea sound like a monster, not like the loving person she knew.

_“Ferguson herself has spent the last several months on remand within the prison she used to run. Now that her charges have been dropped, she is once again a free woman, ready to place this harrowing ordeal behind her.”_

“What did I miss?” Doreen asked, running in and joining the others under the blankets.

“They’re portraying Bea as the villain so that Ferguson can appear as the luckless tragic hero,” Sonia stated succinctly.

Maxine swiveled to stare at her. That’s it. Sonia was right. That’s exactly how this interview was positioning the two women.

Sonia noticed Maxine’s expression and shrugged. “It’s a basic public relations move,” she explained. “Redirect the attention. Change the conversation. If Bea is bad, then Ferguson must be good, and our sympathy should lie with her.”

“If they only knew the truth,” Liz added sardonically.

***

_“Governor Ferguson—excuse me,” Hayley smiled prettily, apologetically. “I mean Ms. Ferguson. Forgive me: I’m used to using your old title.”_

_Joan smiled benevolently. “That’s perfectly all right, Ms. Jovanka—I’m used to it being used. Please, Joan is fine.”_

Vera’s mouth dropped open slightly. She, better than anyone, knew the contempt with which Joan Ferguson held Hayley Jovanka, as well as the news media generally. Now they were on a first-name basis?

_“Joan, then,” Hayley nodded. “Let’s get right to it, shall we? You’ve been acquitted of all charges, but how do you feel about having spent several months on remand for a crime you didn’t commit? How angry are you right now?”_

_“Oh, Hayley,” Joan sighed sadly, her eyes wide. “I’m not angry. I know that this was never a personal attack on me, just as I know that the remand process is part of a bigger system. The system must seek justice to enable the people to feel safe, to feel just.”_

_“Even if those feelings come at your expense?” Hayley prodded._

_Joan nodded, moving her hands in an open gesture. “It is unfortunate, but it’s the only system we have, and it’s generally a good one. It’s the same one that found Bea Smith guilty, after all, when she_ did _murder Brayden Holt.”_

_The camera switched to Hayley nodding, a look of intense listening on her face._

_“And I was ultimately exonerated,” Joan added, as the camera cut back to a close-up shot of her face. “The system was able to recognize my innocence. That is a system that must be treasured. It must be held up as an example. There are too many other places in the world where a woman such as myself would never have been given such due process, where I would be stoned or executed as soon as the first charges were laid, regardless of any truth or greater good. But here, the system enabled the truth of my innocence to be revealed. That is a system that I celebrate.”_

A commercial interrupted the interview. Vera’s mouth hung fully open as she stared at the screen in disbelief. She knew firsthand that Joan regarded the system with contempt, that she viewed it as messy and lazy and sometimes downright corrupt—hell, Joan herself was part of that corruption. And yet here, in this moment, as Joan spewed her rhetoric, it was as if Joan actually believed it.

And it tugged at something in Vera’s own heart, because it was also something that she wanted to believe. She wanted to see herself as part of this beautiful system that was bright and shiny and _right_ , that was both objective and humane in its seeking of justice.

But it was all complete shit.

Vera knew it.

So did Joan.

But would anyone else see through speeches given by the mighty Joan Ferguson?

***

In H-block, Sonia ticked off another point on her fingers: “ah, nationalism. Another good move. Increase the viewer’s self-pride in being Australian, and show how supporting Ferguson becomes an aspect of being Australian. Oh, and there’s a nice dose of feminism, too.”

Maxine stared with horror.

Liz sighed. “She’s good. She’s really, really good at this.”

Doreen shifted uneasily. “Do you think Ferguson has a point? I mean, we don’t actually know who killed Harry. What if it wasn’t her? What if the system really is working?”

Boomer stared at her incredulously. “What the fuck are you on about?”

Doreen shrugged. “I don’t know! It’s just… there’s so much we don’t know. Like what happened in the kitchen—Mel said that Ferguson tried to kill Bea, but I also saw her save Tasha!”

“There’s something wrong with your head,” Boomer stated, shaking her own head. “The Freak’s fucking evil.”

“She saved Joshua,” Doreen responded stubbornly. She sighed. “I’m just saying that everyone is innocent until proven guilty, and in this specific case she was proven innocent. Maybe we should trust the system.”

“Well, to each their own, love,” Liz replied gently, “but a system that exonerates Joan Ferguson is not a system that I care to trust.”

“After all,” Sonia added, “who knows what the evidence was, or who informed on her—truthfully or otherwise.”

Liz’s gaze shifted quickly, guiltily to Sonia, but she was staring at the screen again. “Besides," Sonia quoted softly, "‘most of the evil in this world is done by people with good intentions.’ Hush, now—the interview’s back on.”

Once again, the formidable figure of Joan Ferguson filled the screen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to those of you who leave comments--I really appreciate them! They help me to think through some ideas.
> 
> As always, kudos are love!


	18. 18

“I can’t believe you’re watching this shit,” Bridget petulantly informed Franky.

“Shhh,” she replied, pulling Bridget to sit with her on the couch. “This is important. This may give us a hint about what the Freak is planning.”

Bridget rolled her eyes, snuggling in beside Franky. “She’s hardly going to reveal her evil master plan on national television.”

It was Franky’s turn to respond with an eyeroll. “Of course not, Gidge. But you know the Freak. She has pride. Bea only knew what happened to Allie because the Freak told her.” Franky's shoulders sagged. “I just feel like if I watch closely enough, I’ll be able to see… something.”

“Something?” Bridget repeated. “Something like what?”

“I don’t know,” Franky shook her head, shrugging earnestly. “Just something. Some little sign. Something. I just…” She trailed off. “I just want to figure it out. For Bea.”

Bridget nodded slowly.

Franky sighed. “I know that doesn’t make any sense. Bea’s dead, and… but I know it was the Freak who did it, Gidge. I _know_. And now I need all the ammunition against her that I can get.”

Bridget regarded her levelly. “You know I believe your fixation on blaming Ferguson is your way of avoiding dealing with Bea’s death.”

“But you’re not my therapist,” Franky replied warningly.

“That’s right,” Bridget stated briskly, gently squeezing Franky’s hand. “I’m not your therapist, and you have the right to mourn in any way you choose. And Joan Ferguson _is_ dangerous,” she added.

“That’s right,” Franky agreed. She put her arm around Bridget. “So shut up now, my hot girl,” she said, grinning. “I want to listen.”

_“… all well and fine,” Hayley was saying, “but I want to know how you felt while you were on remand, Joan. You may believe in the system, but you were held in the very prison you ran. Surely that was dangerous for you?”_

_Joan inclined her head forward in a slight nod. “I will admit that it was… daunting… at first. But I placed my faith in the officers that I had carefully trained. I knew that they would protect me.”_

“Oh God,” Franky exclaimed. “I hope Smiles is watching this.”

Bridget gave her a mock stern look before succumbing into giggles with her.

_“Where exactly were you housed? Were you forced into staying within the general population of the prison?”_

_“On the contrary,” Joan replied. “At first, Governor Bennett placed me in a protection unit. She shared your concerns regarding my safety. I requested the move into the general population.”_

_“You requested it?” Hayley repeated, a close-up shot emphasizing her surprise._

_Joan nodded. “I thought it would be an opportunity to learn more about the lives of the women who were under my protection,” she explained smoothly. “As Governor, I have intimate awareness of the workings of Wentworth, but from an administrative point of view. I decided to take the opportunity to interact with the inmates, to understand their needs.”_

_Hayley leaned forward. “And what did you learn?”_

_Joan smiled. “I learned to be proud of the initiatives that I had created during my time as governor,” she stated. “They were clearly working to serve the women. I also realized, however, that there are some aspects that can be improved.”_

_“Such as?” Hayley prodded._

_Joan appeared to pause for a moment, considering the question. “An obvious area of improvement is in psychological support. It is very difficult for most women to adjust to the prison environment, but it can be equally difficult to prepare to leave. I found the current psychological support to be… lacking.”_

_The camera angle changed, so that Joan seemed to look directly at her audience. “In particular, my experience of the forensic psychology within Wentworth was one of diagnosis, rather than understanding. It was almost like…” Joan stopped, appearing to choose her word carefully. “Scoring.”_

Bridget’s eyes narrowed, but she said nothing, her entire body tense. Franky pulled her closer. “She’s just trying to get under your skin,” she quietly informed her. “You’re a threat to her, Gidge—remember that. You’re the one who diagnosed her as a psychopath.”

“And I stand by that diagnosis,” Bridget replied bitterly, “as well as several others. She should never have been released from psychological evaluation in the first place.”

Franky squeezed her tightly.

_The camera returned to Hayley Jovanka. “I’d like to return to your personal experience of being an inmate. You lived among the women; were you bullied by them? Ignored? Did you make friends?”_

_Joan appeared to look away, into the distance. “It was difficult at first,” she started. She turned back to look at Hayley. “You have to remember that when you are Governor, you are in charge of the women’s correction and protection. You can be sympathetic, but you must always make it clear that you are not there to be anyone’s friend.” She paused. “In many ways, a popular governor is a dangerous governor.”_

_Hayley raised her eyebrows. “Vera Bennett is a popular govern amongst the inmates.”_

_“So she is,” Joan replied blandly._

_Hayley appeared intrigued. “We’ll return to that in a moment. You found it difficult to make friends?”_

_“I had to demonstrate to the women that I was no threat. I no longer held any power; I was the same as everyone else in that prison—at least until my exoneration.”_

_“And did it work?” Hayley asked. “Did they trust you? Or did they abuse you?”_

“There!” Franky yelled, pointing at the television. “Did you see that? Did you see her eye twitch when Jovanka asked about abuse?”

Bridget sighed. “She’ll never reveal the ganging,” she stated conclusively. “That’s not a route that will help you.”

“Maybe not in public, but…” Franky thought furiously. “Gidge, did we ever figure out who did it? Who ganged her?”

Bridget shrugged. “No. And I doubt we ever will. In fact, I suspect she did it to herself.”

Franky shook her head decisively. “No. There’s no way she did that to herself.”

“This is Joan Ferguson, Franky. I think you’re underestimating the extent to which she’ll go to manipulate others.”

“No, Gidge,” Franky gently retorted. “ _You’re_ missing the point. She needed to be in General, and she needed to be accepted. But she didn’t need to be ganged for that. A simple bashing by someone like Red would have worked just as well—maybe even better, because the women would have seen the bruises.” Franky stared at the screen. “Top Dog, all of that stuff… it’s a _show_ , Gidge—it’s all about the _display_ of power. But an actual ganging…”

“What?” Bridget nudged her, concerned at her sudden silence.

Franky looked directly at her. “Jacs Holt threatened me with it, once.” She crossed her arms protectively around her torso. “Even in prison, only the absolute sickos actually do that.” She sniffed.

“Sickos like Joan Ferguson?”

Franky was silent.

Bridget pulled her close, holding her tightly. They stared at the screen together.

Franky suddenly bolted forward.

“Or sickos like Juice!” she shouted.

***

_“Did it work? Did they trust you? Or did they abuse you?”_

_“There were… moments… that were decidedly uncomfortable,” Joan replied. “But the majority of the prisoners I had known previously left me to my own devices. I was housed with a group that was similarly on remand. I was able to... bond… with them.”_

_“And what about Bea Smith?” Hayley continued. “I’ve heard that she has become a kind of leader for the women.”_

“Hey?” Boomer asked. “How come they’re talking like Bea’s not… like Bea’s here with us?”

The women stared at each other.

“Do you think nobody knows what’s happened to her?” Doreen asked finally. “No one on the outside?”

There it was again, Maxine thought. The searing pain of yet another stab. “Bea didn’t have any family left on the outside,” she whispered.

The enormity of her statement hung heavy in the room.

There was no one left on the outside to mourn Bea.

None of them could face that yet. Almost as one, they turned back to the television, willing the interview to drown out the painful truth.

But the thought wouldn’t leave Maxine alone. She could feel it sinking into her organs, slicing further and further into her.

There was no one outside to mourn. Bea's life had narrowed to the circumference of these prison walls.

A final realization stabbed deep into Maxine's core.

There would be no funeral for Bea Smith.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I love comments. Let me know your thoughts and theories!
> 
> Kudos mean love.


	19. 19

Vera had no idea how tightly her hands were gripping each other, nails slicing into the soft skin.

_On the screen, Joan was smiling. “Yes, Smith was a leader… of a sort.” She shook her head derisively. “It’s called ‘Top Dog,’” she explained. “It’s a system prisoners often use to impose their own hierarchy. As Governor, I worked against it, of course—no prisoner should have power over another—but Bea Smith did gain significant power while I was on remand.”_

Work against it? Vera snorted. Joan actively used the Top Dog to maintain her own power.

She ignored the voice reminding her that she had done the same.

_“And did Bea Smith ever threaten you? I’ll remind our viewers that she was able to murder Jacs Holt by viciously stabbing her in the neck with a pen. She has also been outspoken in her criticism of your policies as governor.”_

_“No, no,” Joan shook her head. “Once again, I was no threat to the power dynamic. The Top Dog makes the rules. I followed them. Only…”_

_“Yes?” Hayley urged._

_Joan shrugged. “The problem with allowing a prisoner to rule the other women is that it creates the opportunity for cruelty.”_

_“And you saw this cruelty?”_

_Joan sighed. “There was one inmate… a lovely young woman. Very young. She was imprisoned on a minor charge. She was attacked by the other inmates, and she pressed the panic button in an attempt to save herself.”_

_“What happened to her?” Hayley asked softly._

_“She was saved by the guards,” Joan stated firmly. “That’s the point. But in pressing the panic button, she went against Smith’s direct order that no prisoner must ever press the button.”_

_Hayley shook her head. “Why would that be an order? Surely even the Top Dog would agree that such a button is necessary!”_

_Joan snorted. “Not Bea Smith. To her, pushing the panic button was akin to being a lagger. She enacted her own punishment.”_

_“Punishment?”  
_

_Joan nodded. “She brutally shaved the girl’s head, leaving multiple cuts, then allowed the women to further abuse the girl by publically throwing dirt and rubbish at her as she cowered on the ground, in fear.”_

_Hayley appeared horrified._

_“The girl later tried to kill herself,” Joan added._

_“But she survived?”_

_“Barely,” Joan replied, looking down at her hands. “I found her, in the showers. She had made a rope out of her bedsheets…” Joan trailed off._

_“You found her?” Hayley nudged gently._

_Joan nodded, still staring down. “She had hanged herself, probably only moments before. I got her down as fast as I could.” She looked up, directly into the camera, her face full of anguish. “I performed CPR, breathing into her, pushing on her chest. I thought that was it—I thought we’d lost her. But then she coughed!” Her face broke into an angelic smile. “I rolled her over and covered her with a towel. We saved her!”_

_“It sounds like_ you _saved her, Joan,” Hayley pointed out._

_Joan shrugged demurely. “I had the training. I was lucky to be in the right place at the right time.” Her face darkened. “She certainly didn’t deserve to die like that. She had a long, full life ahead of her.”_

_Hayley still appeared scandalized. “But how did Governor Bennett let it get that far? Why did no one stop Smith?”_

_Joan sighed again. “Governor Bennett was an exemplary_ deputy _governor,” Joan explained, “but it may simply be that she is not yet ready for the full governorship…”_

_The screen showed Hayley leaning forward, concern emanating from her posture. “Are you saying Governor Bennett is inept?” she asked._

_A close-up of Joan’s face once again filled the screen. “Of course not,” Joan smiled. “Anything but. Vera Bennett is a consummate professional. I trained her myself.”_

_“But,” Hayley said, leaning further, “there’s something… She’s been promoted and demoted from that position before…”_

_Joan held up her hands. “I’m simply saying that there are… conditions… which make her governorship untenable…”_

_“Conditions?”_

_Joan shook her head. “Discretion,” she stated. “That is not my story to tell. The mechanisms behind her promotion are between Governor Bennett and the Board of Directors that promoted her.”_

_Hayley’s eyes narrowed. “Alright. Let’s get right to it, shall we? Answer this: should Governor Bennett be running Wentworth? Are the women safe under her guard?”_

_The camera zoomed in as Joan looked away, seemingly staring into the distance for a long time. “Let’s just say,” Joan stated, finally turning back, “that I would run Wentworth very differently, if I could return.”_

_“If you could?” Hayley asked, picking up on the wording. “As in you want to return, but are not able?”_

_Joan’s eyelids fluttered sadly. “This process, this trial… I have a stain upon me.”_

_“Even though you were exonerated?”_

_Joan inclined her head. “Even though I am completely innocent. Derek Channing—the General Manager—has expressed to me that the optics of me resuming my position are… not good.”_

_“But that hardly seems fair!” Hayley exclaimed. “You were falsely accused! Surely you should be able to resume your position—surely you_ deserve _your position!”_

_“The General Manager does not agree,” Joan stated simply. “And now I am left with heavy legal fees, and no manner of employment.”_

_“What are you going to do?”_

_“Look for alternative employment,” Joan stated wryly. “I have no other choice.”_

_There was a long pause before the camera focused once again on Hayley. “Well,” she said, turning to face her audience, “I think we can all agree that Correctional Services have lost a true leader in Joan Ferguson. Thank you,” she stated, turning to Joan, “for speaking with us. I hope that our viewers feel as outraged at your mistreatment as I do. Thank you for sharing your story.”  
_

_Joan smiled. “Thank_ you _, Ms Jovanka.”_

_Hayley stared into the camera. “And thank you to our viewers for watching this exclusive interview with Joan Ferguson, former Governor of Wentworth. Tune into tomorrow for my exposé of—”_

Vera clicked the little X on her screen, eliminating the interview.

She didn’t know what to think.

Joan hadn’t revealed her Hep C status, but what she had done was much worse. So much worse. Vera buried her face in her hands. She’d just been declared incompetent on national television.

Her phone rang. She clicked “answer,” but didn’t say anything.

“I’m coming to get you right now,” Jake’s voice drifted up to you. “Don’t say no. I’m coming right now.”

“Yes,” Vera finally choked out, her voice nothing more than a whisper. “Yes.”

She clicked “end,” and turned to stare at her reflection in the silent darkness.

***

Derek Channing knew who was calling before the first ring.

Sure enough, when the phone finally rang, he recognized the name: the Chairman of the Board.

“Fuck,” he stated emphatically to an empty room.

***

Joan turned off the television and leaned back against the soft black leather supporting her.

A long, slow smile spread across her face.

Optics.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the looooong delay! I've been a little crazy with life and work. I expect to post more regularly now.
> 
> As always, any thoughts/comments/theories are very much appreciated! I love reading what people think about the fic. 
> 
> Leaving kudos makes me feel loved!


	20. 20

 

DAY THREE

 

In a way, the slot was a place of dreaming.

Or nightmares.

Kaz stared unseeingly as the first grey haze of pre-dawn light filled the room. She contemplated the thin line that separated dreams from nightmares. When she was little, there had been a clear division. Dreams were fun, and sometimes strange, but always interesting. Nightmares were terrifying. She remembered waking up screaming, calling for her father. He always appeared, ready to save her from the monsters tormenting her.

Kaz blinked.

As she grew older, the line between dreams and nightmares weakened. She woke with a sense of unease, or dread, although she could never pinpoint _why_. She couldn’t name what old terror continued to haunt her every night, now that there was no one to save her.

And then she came to Wentworth, the place of nightmares itself, and everything had gotten… worse.

Kaz rolled over onto her back, staring up at the ceiling.

But it had gotten better, too, in a way. There was life, even in this fucked-up place. It might not be good life, but… it was life.

She sighed, exhaling heavily.

Maybe she should be thankful for the slot, she thought with dark humour. It had given her two long, uninterrupted nights to contemplate everything that had happened since she had arrived here—her incarceration, her fights with Bea, the death of her father, her deal with Joan, Will’s revelation that Joan had turned her in, fighting Joan, becoming Top Dog, and… finding Bea’s dead body.

It was as if everything that had happened to her in these last months revolved around two people: Bea… and Joan.

Everything, really, had always been about Bea and Joan. The rest of them—inmates and guards—had circled around the two, like moths around a twinned flame. And they had all burned themselves on that heat.

But now, only one survived.

Kaz had finished crying for Bea sometime in the dark hours of that first long night. She had made her vow that she would make someone pay. First, though, she would force Will Jackson to reveal what he knew. She suspected that Bennett knew, too, but there was no way she’d be able to get that information from the Governor. No, she needed to go straight to the source.

Once she’d settled her mind on her plan, repeating it throughout the hours to cement it in her brain, she found her thoughts drifting to the other flame.

How did Joan Ferguson fit into all of this?

Truthfully, she had avoided thinking too directly about Joan. Ever since she tried to kill Bea, her mind continually slipped, skidding away whenever she was confronted with the memory of Joan. Somewhere in that second night, though, when she was too exhausted to censor her thoughts any longer, Joan appeared again.

If Kaz had cried for Bea on the first night, she cried for Joan on the second.

They weren’t tears of sadness or desolation, as they had been for Bea. Her tears for Joan were hot, angry, full of shame that they even existed—that they were even falling. Joan was a monster. She had used Kaz—she had used them all, with no thought to how her actions would affect any of them. She had perverted everything Kaz had tried to build with her women, using it instead as a weapon against Bea, and probably against Will Jackson, too. Kaz hated Joan with a passion that ran deep into her core. She wanted to scream at her, scrape her fingernails deep into her skin, draw blood, destroy her.

But—and here the shame threatened to overwhelm her—but some sick part of her missed Joan, too. She missed the Joan who had been hurt so terribly—hurt in a way no woman should have to endure. She missed the Joan who knew all the answers, whose quick mind was glorious to watch. She missed the Joan who had saved that suicidal girl—had that been just an act, somehow, too? But mostly she missed the Joan who had listened to her darkest confession; who had held her, comforting her through that night, never once judging her.

It is possible to love and hate at the same time.

The slot was a place of dreams and nightmares.

***

Corridors away, Maxine lay in the same position as Kaz, staring at the ceiling and watching the anemic morning light grow slowly brighter. She, too, had barely slept, although both her body and mind continued to feel exhausted. Her blankets had long been kicked to the side, and she lay with one hand across her absent breasts, the other tucked into her underwear, gently cupping the last remaining physical reminder of her womanhood.

Biological sex meant nothing, she told herself. It was her perception of her gender that was important. She _was_ a woman. She had _always_ been a woman, even when her body hadn’t quite matched. This was no different.

But it was, she thought, and a sob escaped from between her clenched teeth. For that brief time, her body and her mind had finally come together.

She had been _beautiful_. She had been perfect.

Now that was gone.

Now she suffered through hot and cold flashes of guilt and shame. All this time when she should be mourning Bea, remembering her, she kept thinking about herself: her body, her disease, her death.

Had the hormones that made her physically into a woman actually caused her cancer?

If she hadn’t been at the hospital for chemo, could she have saved Bea? Could she have prevented her death?

Selfish. She was so selfish. Everything was about her. She hadn’t protected Bea, hadn’t saved her. And even now, all she could think about was herself; what she had lost. What she might still lose.

She squeezed her eyes shut for the thousandth time, praying for sleep to take her away from it all.

As always, no sleep would come.

The morning light grew brighter.

***

The first full rays of sunlight spread themselves across the city.

Vera Bennett, curled against the long hard body of Jake Stewart, clenched her eyes shut as she burrowed her face back into her pillow.

Will Jackson stumbled home, stinking of smoke and alcohol and assorted sins.

Joan Ferguson woke with a smug smile, opening her eyes to her lovely, clean, heavily-disinfected home, and the promise of her Governorship.

Derek Channing also woke with a smug smile, lazily stretching his limbs and sighing contentedly.

Unbeknownst to Joan, he was also thinking of the Governorship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, mornings in Wentworth...
> 
> Thanks to all readers! Please leave a comment to let me know what you think. (And if you're finding this fic interesting, please consider leaving kudos)!


	21. 21

*** WARNING***: please be aware that there is a scene involving non-consensual sexual violence. It may be triggering to some readers.

.

.

.

The breakfast dishes had been washed and put away. The kitchen was spotless.

Joan carefully aligned her cell phone with her laptop and her tea. There was much to do as she waited for the call from Channing.

***

Vera finally opened her eyes, blinking against the sunshine. The space next to her was empty, but she could hear the shower running.

In a strange way, she thought, she should be happy. Jake had never before stayed the night. They still hadn’t had sex—as much as she hinted that she wanted to—but at least he had stayed. This must mean something.

She closed her eyes.

It figured that her love life would finally start just as her career flatlined.

***

Jake leaned into the warm spray, letting it fall over his shoulders and down his body. He pulled back, grabbing Vera’s body wash—ugh, freesia, so disgustingly feminine—and scrubbed it vigorously across his skin. He allowed his hands to drift slowly downward, to where he was already half aroused.

He thought about Joan.

A rush of breath escaped from between his lips.

He wasn’t interested in her sexually. Not really. But the way she had manipulated that interview last night, the way she had maintained control throughout, playing the victim when she was anything but…

It excited him.

He imagined her coming back to Wentworth, seizing the Governorship. She would have both the inmates and the guards running in fear—everyone but him. Poor little Vera wouldn’t know what hit her.

Smiling, he closed his eyes, picturing Joan calling him into her office after a staff meeting. She would send her assistant away. When she turned from closing the door, ushering him toward a seat, he would slowly allow his eyes to travel up and down the length of her body. He would assert his dominance over this powerful creature.

But she was Joan, so she wouldn’t allow that. Unlike Vera, who would redden and stumble backwards, Joan would slowly, purposefully stride forward, directly into his personal space. She would hold his gaze.

He was fully hard now, pumping himself in a familiar pattern.

“I’m promoting you, Mr. Stewart,” she would say in that low, husky voice. “You’ve demonstrated your reliability and ability to complete tasks.” She would reach up, placing her hand on his upper chest. “You’ll be my deputy, now,” she would say, smiling smugly. “Congratulations.”

He would roughly tug her hand, pulling her even closer, surprising her. “Fuck you, Joan,” he would whisper into her ear as she quivered against his hard body. “You made me kill for you.”

Her laugh would vibrate against him, the sound low and throaty. “I didn’t force you to do it,” she would hiss into his ear. “You chose to take my money. You chose to kill.” Suddenly, she would bite his earlobe. “And now I own you.”

The feel of his cock was almost excruciating. He was close, so close…

“No, Joan,” he would say. “No, _Governor_ , it’s the other way around.” Suddenly, he would shove her hard, forcing her down to the ground, down to her knees. Pulling out his cock, he would push it into her face. “I own _you_ ,” he would say as he forced it between her lips, holding the back of her head as she gagged on it.

He came hard, his cum spurting against the sides of Vera’s shower.

***

Joan checked the time on the upper right of her screen. It was still early, particularly for a slothful General Manager.

She smiled to herself, focusing again on her work.

***

Kaz was finally allowed out of the slot.

“Who did it?” she asked as soon as she was escorted into the Governor’s Office.

“Thank you, Officer Lawson,” Vera nodded, dismissing the man who had escorted Proctor. “Please wait outside.”

“Well?” Kaz asked as soon as the door closed behind Lawson.

Vera ground her teeth and stared out the window. This was exactly what Jake had pointed out to her this morning, after his shower. The women didn’t respect her. They didn’t fear her. They just… demanded.

“Will Jackson obviously knows,” Kaz continued belligerently.

Jake had said that she had to be more careful now. She had to be harder, stricter, more calculating, if she wanted to keep her job.

She had to be like Joan.

The thought made her want to scream.

“You’re seriously refusing to look at me?” Kaz demanded.

Fine, Vera thought. She would be like Joan, at least for these next few days.

Then let it all be done.

She swiveled her chair to look at Kaz, her face chillingly expressionless. She said nothing.

Kaz’s brows furrowed. She couldn’t say that she knew the Governor well, but… this was a different Vera Bennett than the one she had encountered before. Something had obviously happened. Was it because of Bea? What else had occurred while she was in the slot?

“I will respond to you,” Vera enunciated slowly, icily, “when you show me the respect due to my position.”

“Are you kidding me?” Kaz nearly laughed.

“Do I appear to be kidding?” Vera asked, her eyebrows rising in near-perfect imitation of Joan’s.

Kaz hesitated. She was determined to find out what happened to Bea, but something was obviously going on. She needed to talk to the women, to get information before she antagonized the Governor.

“I respect you, Governor,” she said slowly.

Vera peered at her closely, searchingly. “Fine,” she replied, somewhat taken aback by Proctor’s quick about-face. “No, the police have not yet determined Smith’s cause of death.”

“Haven’t determined—let me help them out,” Kaz said sarcastically, already losing the careful façade of only a moment earlier. “She was stabbed. Repeatedly. Brutally!”

Vera cleared her throat, trying her best to keep her patience, to preserve control. “I mean that they do not yet know who stabbed Smith.”

Kaz stared at her incredulously.

Vera’s jaw shifted, growing tighter, but she maintained eye contact.

“ _You_ know,” Kaz finally said accusingly. “I think that you know.”

Vera stared back. “I have removed you from the slot on one condition,” she stated firmly, pointedly ignoring the accusation.

Kaz stepped forward. “You know and you haven’t told anyone.”

Vera continued as if Kaz hadn’t spoken. “That condition is that you stay away from Officer Jackson. You make no attempt to interact with him past what is strictly necessary.”

“You’re covering it up,” Kaz spat, pointing accusingly at Vera.

“If you continue to attack Officer Jackson,” Vera persisted without losing a beat, “I will have no recourse but to place you back into the slot.”

Kaz finally yelled, pounding her hands on the desk. “You’re part of it—you’re part of whatever this is!” She swept her hands across the desk, throwing everything in her reach onto the floor.

Officer Lawson appeared in the doorway. “Everything all right, Governor?” he asked, flicking his eyes to Kaz and back. He and Vera exchanged glances.

“Please escort Proctor back to the slot,” Vera ordered firmly. She turned back to glare at Kaz. “She will remain there until she learns how to conduct herself properly within this prison.”

“What?” Kaz screamed. “This is a cover-up—this is all a cover-up! Don’t touch me!” She tried to push off the officer. “You know who killed her, Bennett!” she yelled as she was dragged away. “This is a cover-up!”

Vera calmly shut the door to her office. She stepped over the telephone now lying at her feet. Sitting once more, she swiveled back toward the window. She looked out, staring at nothing.

Kaz continued to scream as she was led to the slot.

Down the hall, Liz stood frozen where she had emerged from her meeting with Detective Kaplan. She was shocked.

Had that been Kaz screaming?

Was the Governor really covering up the murder?

What was going on?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Confession: I'm really not sure that it's okay to go as far as I did with the Jake shower scene. I'm trying to get at Jake's characterization (and obsession with power). I tend to think he's secretly rather misogynist, so that's why I purposely included this really degrading moment with Joan, because I think he's both attracted to her power and hates her for it/wants to demonstrate his power over her (which, being possibly misogynist, he would choose to do sexually). Saying that, I hate, hate, HATE how television shows often use rape or sexual abuse as a kind of shorthand for "this character is bad," so I'm hoping that I'm not doing that. Honestly, I'm unsure. 
> 
> As always, I appreciate all comments! If you're enjoying the fic, please leave kudos.


	22. 22

Vera replaced everything that Kaz had so violently thrown off of her desk. She did her best not to think as she picked up her phone—that damned phone—her papers, her pens. She returned them all to their rightful positions, careful not to line them up too perfectly, not to make everything too neat, too clean.

She wasn’t Joan Ferguson.

By late morning, Vera cancelled all of her meetings. She dismissed her assistant for an early lunch, closed the door to her office, and pulled the blinds closed. She calmly walked into the bathroom and removed a towel. Holding it over her mouth with one hand, she kicked off both of her ridiculous high heels. Then, one by one, she picked them up and threw them hard at the wall—THWACK—THWACK—all the while screaming every obscenity she could remember into the towel shoved into her mouth. She pushed out of herself all of her rage and hate and frustration, all of her feelings of inadequacy, all of her anxieties.

But she could not get rid of the guilt.

That fact made her even angrier. She threw herself to the floor like a furious toddler, pounding her hands ineffectively against the carpet.

Joan had won. Joan would take back the Governorship. Joan _always_ won.

Vera just wasn’t good enough.

She was a disappointment.

Joan always won.

There was nothing she could do. She simply had to wait for the phone call from Channing, and hope that her replacement was anyone _but_ Joan.

Except that Joan always won.

She continued to pound her fists against the floor, crying.

***

By noon, Joan was angry.

How dare he not call.

She had already spoken with Hayley Jovanka, who had exuberantly confirmed that the ratings during her interview had been the highest the news programme had seen in months. People were interested in Joan. People wanted to know more about her.

Joan didn’t like publicity. She would use it to her advantage if she had to, but it was distasteful to her. It was too intrusive.

It looked too closely.

No, unlike Vera, who openly flirted with the media, Joan preferred to stay out of the limelight. She remained in the shadows, in control.

Still… the interview had done its job. The network’s morning show had read viewers’ tweets about Joan. They had even run an informal poll. All the social media pointed to the same fact: the interview had established her as a maligned person in the minds of the people. She was the tragic hero who should be restored to her rightful position. She, not Vera, should be Governor.

She should win.

But still no telephone call from Channing.

She continued to wait.

***

Exhausted from her tantrum, Vera finally collapsed into her chair. She spent a good half hour simply staring out the window before she remembered that she should at least attempt to call Will Jackson before she was fired.

He needed to remain silent if they were all going to survive.

The phone rang six times before reverting to voice mail. She considered leaving a message, but it would really only add to the pile of messages she had already left.

She hung up and dialed again.

And after six rings, she hung up and dialed again.

And again.

By the fifth time, it had become a game of sorts. Dial, listen to the rings, hang up just before voicemail, redial.

And then suddenly he answered.

“Will?” she asked, surprised.

“Of course it is,” he replied groggily. “What the fuck do you want, Vera? Why do you keep calling?”

She was taken aback. She had hardly expected this kind of greeting—indeed, she really hadn’t expected him to answer at all, but she had never imagined this level of disrespect when he did. “What the—what the fuck do _I_ want, Will?” she asked, her voice rising. “What do _I_ want? I want you to come to work and do your fucking job!”

There was a long moment of silence.

“Will?” she asked, starting to worry.

“But you suspended me,” he informed her, and Vera could detect the obvious bewilderment in his voice. “You suspended me, Vera. Why would I come to work?”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” Vera replied. She dropped the handset on her desk, rubbing her face with her hands. She wished she had her shoes to throw again, but they were on the other side of the room. Picking the handset back up, she tried to sound as calm as possible. “Will, I suspended you before Smith… before Smith’s death was discovered. You didn’t honestly think that the suspension would remain in place with everything that’s happened! I need you here!”

There was another long pause.

“So I’m not suspended?” Will asked slowly.

“You’re not fucking suspended!” Vera shouted. She clamped her hand over her mouth. “I’m sorry—I’m sorry, Will,” she told him contritely. “I didn’t mean to shout. You are definitely not suspended. I need you to come into work immediately.”

“Hmmm,” Will replied non-committedly.

“Do you have some sort of prior engagement?” Vera asked sarcastically, “some all-important event preventing you from joining us?” She flinched, recognizing how closely she suddenly resembled Joan.

“No…” he responded slowly.

“Then get yourself to work!” she shrieked into the phone, slamming the handset back into the cradle.

The phone rang almost immediately.

“What?” she yelled. “What, do I have to dress you, zip your trousers for you, too?”

The line was silent for a moment.

“I believe I’m capable of doing that on my own,” Derek Channing stiffly replied.

Vera went very still. “Fuck,” she said.

***

Far across town, in a lonely hospital room, soft beeps continued to sound regularly.

Allie slowly opened her eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plot thickens...
> 
> As always, comments are very welcome! If you like the fic, please consider leaving kudos.


	23. 23

All morning, during work duty, the women had witnessed an obviously distraught Liz.

“What’s wrong?” Doreen asked with concern as they folded towels, placing a pile beside Sonia.

Liz eyed the nearby guard. “I can’t tell you,” she informed them in a low voice, “but I overheard something disturbing. About Bea’s death.”

Doreen gasped, eyes widening. Sonia raised an impeccable eyebrow, but remained silent.

“Do you know who did it?” Doreen hissed.

“Not exactly,” Liz replied, still being careful not to be overheard. She leaned forward. “Lunchtime,” she whispered. “Tell the others.”

They nodded.

Lunchtime couldn’t come soon enough.

***

“Tell us what you know,” Maxine demanded without preamble once they had all gathered around their table. She slumped tiredly in her chair, trying not to broadcast the fatigue that was overtaking her limbs.

“I don’t _know_ anything,” Liz responded with frustration, stabbing her vegetables. “It’s something I overheard. I was meeting with Det—” she abruptly stopped herself, glancing at Sonia. “That is, I was having my session with the psychologist. Just as I was leaving, I overheard screaming coming from the Governor’s office.” Her eyes quickly swept the room before she leaned forward. “It was Kaz. I’m sure of it. She was screaming that Governor Bennett knew who killed Bea, and that she’s covering it up!”

“What the fuck!” Boomer exclaimed, almost knocking over her drink. “Vinegar Tits knows who it is?”

“Wait,” Maxine interjected, shaking her head. “That doesn’t make any sense. Why would the Governor know, but want to cover it up? Surely it’s better for her if the murderer is found.”

They sat silently, pondering Maxine’s words.

“Unless the Governor is protecting someone,” Sonia interjected thoughtfully.

They stared at her.

“It can’t be an inmate,” Doreen stated. “She has no reason to protect an inmate. If she was scared of retaliation against the murderer, she’d just put her into protection.”

The others nodded.

“A screw, then,” Liz replied.

“But why?” Maxine continued to question. “What motive do any of the screws have for killing Bea?”

“I don’t know,” Liz returned, genuinely perplexed. “If anything, I would have thought it would be someone like Juice or Tina Mercado. I can’t think of any screw who had it out for Bea.”

“Except Joan Ferguson, of course,” Sonia pointed out.

“Holy fuck! The Freak…”

“Oh my God…”

“But wasn’t she released earlier?”

“Stop,” Maxine raised her hand, attempting to stop both the talk around her and the exhaustion that was starting to overwhelm her again. “Stop. The Freak was released earlier that day. We all know that. And she was in medical protection before that. There’s simply no way she could have done it.”

The others grudgingly nodded.

“At least not without help from another guard,” Sonia mused.

“No,” Liz said decisively. “I distinctly heard Kaz yell that the Governor herself was covering it up. So if a guard helped the Freak get to Bea, then it was either the Governor, or the Governor knew about it.”

Maxine’s brow furrowed. “But there’s the problem again: I think it’s fairly obvious to all of us that Governor Bennett _hates_ the Freak. There’s no reason why she would help her, and there’s definitely no reason why she would be involved in Bea’s murder.”

“Fuck!” Boomer exclaimed, pounding her fist on the table. “This is doing me head in!”

“We need answers,” Doreen agreed. “We need to talk to Kaz. Immediately.”

Liz shook her head. “Not happening. Kaz was screaming at the guards to get their hands off of her. She was obviously being slotted.”

Maxine sighed. “I guess we just have to wait. Again.”

They each silently returned to eating their meals.

Boomer glared in thought, scanning the lunch room. Her eyes settled on Linda Miles standing beside the door. “Hey, hey!” She exclaimed to the group. “Sonia!” she said, turning to the smaller woman. “You’re rich!”

Sonia patted Boomer’s hand. “Yes, Susan. That’s very good.”

Boomer gave her a withering look. “I’m not a fucking idiot!” She turned to the others. “I mean, why don’t we pay off Smiles to get inside information?”

“That’s not a bad idea,” Liz stated thoughtfully. “And it’s certainly worked before.”

“But what if Smiles is on the Governor’s side?” Doreen asked. “If we ask, she may just report us to the Governor.”

“It _is_ a risk,” Sonia agreed.

Maxine sat quietly, thinking over the situation. “What we need,” she said slowly, “is someone who has full access to the prison, but who isn’t an inmate, and isn’t a screw.”

“Huh. That just leaves the delivery people,” Boomer contemplated, “and…”

“The psychs.” Maxine nodded. “Bridget Westfall.”

Once again they fell silent, contemplating the idea.

“How do we know we can trust her?” Doreen asked.

“We don’t,” Maxine replied. “But she made it pretty clear that she’s with Franky. And our current Governor didn’t like it.” Looking around the table, Maxine pulled together her last remnants of energy to smile at the others. “I think it’s time we schedule a session or two with our shrink.”

***

In her spotless home, Joan’s frustration level was reaching a new high.

She had spent much of the morning tracing—from memory—parolees who had been placed in Stanstead House. It had led to… nothing.

It seemed that Derek Channing truly _had_ cleaned house.

Her eyelid twitched in anger as she continued to stare at her silent phone.

***

Across town, in the hospital, Allie blinked.

And blinked again.

She didn’t know where she was.

As her eyes adjusted to the bright light, she could see that she was obviously in some sort of medical facility. But where was she?

She tried to turn her neck, but pain suddenly burst from her lungs. It felt like she was being scorched from the inside. She gasped, and the pain only intensified.

Exhausted, she lay perfectly still.

Something had happened. She knew it—it was something important. But what? How did she get here?

She tried to push back in her memory, to remember. There was… happiness. She re-experienced a brief surge of it. It was overwhelming—it felt so big, so strong, so important. It filled her, exploding out of her.

She had been happy.

But suddenly the surge was gone, and in its wake she was flooded by a devastating sense of loss. It was _gone_ —whatever had caused such sublime, overpowering joy was gone. She didn’t know what it was, or what it meant, but she was certain: it wasn’t coming back.

In her lonely hospital room, a machine pumping her lungs, Allie wept fiercely, despairingly, for what she had lost.

And for what she couldn’t remember.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Damn, readers! This is getting complicated...
> 
> Please leave comments! It helps me to feel like I'm not writing into a void.
> 
> If you enjoy the fic, please consider leaving kudos. It makes me feel loved.


	24. 24

“So I’m still Governor?” Vera asked, wincing at the pathetic squeak in her voice.

“You’re still Governor,” Channing affirmed. “But don’t fuck this up, Vera. I still don’t know what we’re going to do about Smith’s death, but when either Ferguson or the press find out about it, you know all hell will break lose.”

Vera nervously twisted the telephone cord between her fingers. “Maybe no one will care,” she replied hopefully.

“Have you lost your wits?” Channing responded. “This is Bea Smith we’re talking about. She’s hardly some unknown figure.” He paused, his sigh audible over the phone. “It’s going to be a fucking circus. We just have to hope that we’ll have time to prepare for it.”

Vera nodded.

“Vera?” Channing barked.

“Yes, Mr. Channing,” Vera finally said aloud. “I understand.”

“Good,” he replied, “because if you fuck this up, I will personally see to it that you don’t work in any correctional centre in the entirety of Australia.”

The line went dead.

Vera carefully replaced the handset. Once again, she stared out the window. She knew—even if Channing didn’t—that Joan was very aware of Smith’s death. But would she use that information? It would be a risk, since Joan herself could be implicated in the death.

And if she was, there was nothing to stop her from implicating Vera, as well.

Vera needed a plan.

***

“We don’t need to schedule sessions with Westfall,” Sonia was saying.

“Yeah, we do,” Boomer replied. “That’s the point of Maxi’s plan! To get information out of her!”

“No, Susan, that’s not what I mean,” Sonia shook her head. “Liz already has regular sessions scheduled with her. She can be our go-between.”

Liz felt suddenly panicked. “No, no, I’d rather stay out of it,” she responded nervously.

“Oh come on, Liz!” Doreen chided her. “This is perfect! No one would suspect a thing!”

Maxine was watching Liz carefully. She could sense some kind of dynamic between Liz and Sonia that she didn’t understand. It was obvious, however, that Liz was quietly panicking.

“I’ll do it,” she announced abruptly. “No one will wonder why I suddenly feel the need to see a therapist.”

The table was silent. Boomer suddenly reached over and grabbed Maxine’s hand, holding it forcefully.

Maxine didn’t have the heart to tell her it hurt.

Sonia nodded decisively. “An excellent plan, Maxine. You will be an exceptional go-between.”

“ _If_ we can get Westfall to talk,” Liz pointed out.

Their thoughts were interrupted by sudden yells and clamoring around them. As Maxine watched, Tina Mercado shoved Juicy Lucy, using the force of her much smaller body to push the older woman into the cafeteria table. “I said to stay the fuck away from me,” Tina bellowed.

“Then stop getting in our business,” Lucy yelled back, “or me and the boys will show you what our business really means!”

Boomer jumped up from the table. “Oi, shut up, Juice!” she yelled. “Nobody wants to see your business!”

Maxine’s eyes scanned the cafeteria, watching as the women shouted, egging on a fight. She observed as the guard ineffectually tried to quiet the women.

“The women are losing it,” Doreen noted.

Liz nodded. “We need a proper Top Dog. Kaz has to get out of the slot.”

They were right, Maxine thought. The women needed the stability of a Top Dog. She watched as the guard on duty panicked, calling in other officers. But there was more to it, she contemplated. Maxine closed her eyes, once again pushing away waves of guilt and sadness.

They needed closure.

She stood, slowly, pushing back her still-full tray. “I’m going to ask to speak with the Governor.”

The others stared at her.

“Bea needs a funeral,” she announced.

***

Franky was rummaging through drawers. “Gidge?” she called. “Have you seen my keys?”

“Did you check the hook?” Bridget replied, happily donning her shirt. Her smile bordered on smug. These little lunchtime meetups with Franky made her workday _so_ much better…

“Found them!” Franky called back.

Bridget shook her head in fondness. Franky was a beautiful, hot-headed whirlwind with a remarkable ability to lose her car keys on an almost hourly basis.

Franky appeared in the doorway. “Of course, I could always just catch a ride with you!”

“Like you just did?” Bridget asked in reply, raising and lowering her eyebrows comically as she circled her hands around Franky’s waist.

“Gidge!” Franky exclaimed, shaking her head. “That was pathetic. That was like a dad-joke level of pathetic, but about sex! That’s just wrong!”

Bridget chuckled. “You’re the one who joked about it first!”

“I meant a _real_ ride, Gidge. Real. In a car. With wheels.”

Bridget rolled her eyes. “I’m going to _work_ , Franky. To Wentworth.”

“Yeah,” Franky responded, nodding. “I’m going there, too!”

Bridget stilled. “What do you mean?”

Franky laughed. “What do you mean, what do I mean? I’m going to Wentworth. I need to fill out a visitor request form.”

Bridget released her hands from Franky’s waist, pulling back to look at her. “You can’t visit anyone there,” she stated seriously.

“What? Of course I can,” Franky replied. “Gidge, you know I visited Bea there,” she said quietly. “We had good talks. I miss that. I miss the women.”

“I know, love,” Bridget said sympathetically, taking Franky’s hands. “But Bea obviously isn’t there anymore, and, as for visiting the women… we have to be careful.”

Franky rolled her eyes. “I’m not scared of Vera Bennett, if that’s what you mean.”

Bridget sighed. “It is, partly, but it’s also more than that. Ferguson knew about our involvement. I need you to stay far away from anything related to Wentworth—at least for a little while. I need you and my place of employment to be completely separate.”

“Gidge…” Franky looked away. “Gidge, I know we need to protect you—”  
“And you,” Bridget interrupted. “You’re still on parole, Franky.”

Franky nodded. “I get that—I understand the need for caution. But it’s also important that I go. I need to tell someone—Liz, or Boomer, I haven’t decided yet—I need to alert the women.”

“Franky…” Bridget started warningly.

“They need to know about the Freak!” Franky exclaimed. “They need to know that she gave the hot shot to Allie!”

“And what exactly would that accomplish?” Bridget replied. “You have no proof!”

“Bea told me!” Franky shouted, crying. “She told me herself, before… before…”

Bridget pulled her into her familiar hold. “Shhhh,” she whispered. “Shhhh.”

Franky quieted. “Gidge,” she said, whispering into Bridget’s shoulder. She tilted her head, looking Bridge in the eye. “It’s their right to know,” she stated earnestly.

Bridget sighed, thinking. After a while, she nodded. “You’re right,” she murmured.

“I usually am,” Franky affirmed, her sense of humour struggling to return as she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.

“But it can’t be you to tell them,” Bridget added.

Franky’s brow knotted in confusion. “Then who—?”

“Me. I’ll tell them.”

Franky shook her head. “Isn’t that more dangerous? What if Vera found out?”

“I’m not scared of Vera Bennett,” Bridget mocked, throwing back Franky’s earlier words. Her smile faded. “It’s ethically problematic, but it’s still safer. You know better than anyone that my meetings with patients are entirely confidential. They’re not recorded or monitored. Neither Ferguson nor Vera will know.”

They stared at each other for a long moment before Franky pulled her into a hug. “Then you tell them,” she whispered fiercely into Bridget’s ear. “You tell my girls. You let them know exactly what we’re up against.” She paused. “And maybe, just maybe, they can find some way to help from the inside!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts? Comments? Theories? Let me know how you feel about the chapter!
> 
> P.S. If you like this fic, kudos are always appreciated!


	25. 25

“She won’t do it, you know,” Linda said quietly as she escorted Maxine to the Governor’s Office. “There’s no way she’ll let any of you out to attend Smith’s funeral. It’s too big of a risk. And too expensive. Think of the overtime.”

“I have to try,” Maxine replied earnestly.

Linda shrugged. “It’s your time to waste.”

They arrived outside the office. Linda raised her hand to knock on the door, finally turning to look Maxine in the eye.

“I have to try,” Maxine repeated.

Linda sighed and nodded. “I know,” she whispered as she gave three quick raps on the door. Opening it, she stuck her head inside. “Governor? Conway to see you.”

Vera’s brows knit together. She had an idea what this may be about. Subtly fingering the affirmation band she continued to wear around her wrist, she consciously smoothed her features. “Ah yes,” she replied, clearing a file from her desk. “Show her in.”

Linda turned to Maxine. “Good luck,” she muttered as she held the door open for her.

“That will be all, Ms. Miles,” Vera called as Maxine entered, dismissing Linda.

Maxine carefully lowered herself into the chair. She paused for a moment as she waited for the seemingly ever-present nausea to diminish.

“How are you, Conway?” Vera asked, her voice soft.

Maxine was surprised by the Governor’s sympathetic tone.

Vera shifted uneasily in her chair. “I know a little about illness,” she explained uncomfortably. “My mother had a lot of pain before… before she died. I hope that you don’t have to suffer anything like that.”

“Thank you, Governor.” Maxine’s smile was small, but sincere. “I appreciate that.”

Vera nodded. An awkward silence descended on the room.

“So,” Vera cleared her throat. “Ms. Miles informed me that you have a proposition to help the women? I’m always happy to listen to ideas about new programs.”

“It is something that would help the women,” Maxine responded slowly, “but it’s not a program. At least, not exactly.”

“Oh?” Vera asked, trying to maintain a carefully non-committal tone.

Maxine heard the artificial tone, but knew she didn’t have the energy to carefully or even diplomatically make her case. Instead, she dropped her burden squarely on Vera. “The women are hurting,” she informed her seriously. “I know you probably only see little fights, or requests for extra guards during lunch, but things are going to get worse,” she prophesied. “Bea Smith was a fixture to the women. Some liked her, some hated her, but she was one of the few sources of stability. And I don’t mean in terms of being Top Dog,” she quickly added as she saw Vera about to interrupt. “The women knew she was going to be in here for at least twenty more years. And they knew her stances—particularly concerning drugs.” She paused, leaning forward solemnly. “You may think that the guards provide the structure in a prison, Governor, but they only do part of the work. The rest is performed by the strongest of the women. And Bea was _strong_.”

Vera stilled, listening to Conway. What she was telling her was very similar to an equation that Joan Ferguson had once explained: that a prison is always run by two people: the Governor, and the inmate in charge.

She sighed. “I acknowledge that you may be correct about the women, Conway. But that’s part of mourning.” She spread her hands in a wide gesture. “There’s nothing I can do to stop their pain.”

This was it, Maxine thought. “You can, actually,” she stated emphatically. “A funeral. Bea Smith needs a funeral. You can let the women plan it for her.”

“A funeral,” Vera repeated flatly. She barked a short, humourless laugh. “You think I’m going to allow—that I even have the officer manpower—to allow the women of this prison to attend Smith’s funeral.”

Maxine shook her head. “I know that the women can’t leave the prison. But, with your permission, they can plan the funeral, and it can be held here.”

Vera’s brow furrowed. “The family would never allow it.”

“Governor,” Maxine seemed to say with infinite patience, “ _we’re_ Bea’s family. We’re all she had left.”

Vera was startled by the sudden comprehension that Conway was likely correct. She would need to pull Smith’s file for certain, but her daughter and ex-husband were obviously both deceased… were Smith’s parents still alive? Had she had any siblings?

Maxine could clearly read the thoughts as they flickered across Vera’s face. “No,” she said sincerely. “We talked about it. There was no one left on the outside. She was alone. She only had us.”

Vera stared hard at Maxine before turning to gaze out the window, thinking. A funeral for an inmate would be highly unusual, but Smith had always had a surprising hold on the women, even before she became Top Dog. She could remember the way the women rallied around her when her daughter died… And then there was Erica’s horrific decision not to allow Smith to attend Debbie’s funeral—or maybe that had been Channing’s decision? Either way, Vera remembered thinking that it was wrong; that it failed to recognize that Smith was a human first, and a prisoner second.

On the other hand, a funeral would bring attention. It would make public—and final—the fact that Smith had died right here in this prison. It had the potential to make Smith into a saint, and a saint was a danger to the smooth operation of a prison. A saint became the figure around which the women could rally—would rally—whenever they decided things were not going their way.

Vera blinked against the harsh light streaming through the window.

Joan would never have allowed a funeral. It gave the women too much power. And, as much as she hated it, Vera was trying to be Joan-like until the crisis dissipated.

But that, too, felt wrong, she thought, wanting to bang her fist against the desk. She watched the women in the exercise yard. Everything felt wrong. Would it really be so bad if the women had their funeral? Would it truly give them too much power, or would it instead become a collective event that they could use to heal?

Vera sighed again. Turning back to Maxine, she noticed the woman’s pallor. “I will think about it,” she informed her. “And I will ask Mr. Channing about the possibility—but that is all. I make no promises,” she warned.

Maxine nodded, her smile obviously tired.

Vera frowned. “In the meantime, I think we should get you to the infirmary.”

“No,” Maxine shook her head, “I’m fine. I’m just a bit tired, but I’m fine.”

“Then I’m giving you a pass from work duty this afternoon,” Vera informed her, “and I expect you to spend the time in your unit, resting.”

Maxine nodded again. “Thank you, Governor.”

Vera escorted her to the door. As she opened it, Maxine turned to her.

“You’re not like Ferguson,” she blurted. She shook her head, trying to gain control of herself. “What I mean is, Governor Ferguson would never have considered this request. I appreciate that you’re different, Governor Bennett. All the women do.”

Vera stared at her.

Maxine hesitated. “I hope that you will remember who you are as you consider this request.”

Linda Miles, positioned just outside the door, raised her eyebrows.

Vera felt suddenly awkward. “Yes, well, thank you, Conway.” She gave her another quick, hard look. All she could detect was sincerity. “Go rest, now,” she ordered. “Ms. Miles will escort you back to your unit.”

Vera closed the door, shutting them out, leaning her forehead against the hard surface. “Remember who you are,” Conway had said. She wanted to laugh and cry simultaneously. She was governor, a prisoner was dead, she had helped to cover it up, and Joan Ferguson was after her job.

She snorted, tears welling.

As if she had any idea who she was, anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, comments are very much appreciated. Let me know what you think! Is the story going in a good direction, or have I gone off into crazytown?
> 
> If you're enjoying the fic, please consider leaving kudos.


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